I’m writing these words from the sofa of my childhood home.
A few rooms over, pink flowered wallpaper beckons me back to memories of slumber parties, awkward years, bangs that were too big, and endless questions about who I would grow up to be.
And the more years go by, it seems I know both more and less about the answer to those questions.
Find yourself, says this world.
But I don’t think that’s really the way it works.
Finding yourself sounds like “you” are out there that knowing who you are is a process of going.
Yet it seems in so many ways that it’s really more about staying…