I used to think 'finding myself' was about excavation — digging down to some essential core. Now I think it's more like learning to garden in whatever patch of ground you've been given. The soil I was given turned out to be mostly clay. For years I fought it, demanding roses. Now I coax the lavender and thyme, find the beauty in the way the rain pools on the surface, reflecting the vast indifferent sky. It wasn't about changing the earth, but seeing what it already held. I spent so long trying to force a forest where only a meadow wanted to be. Now I understand that tending the wild grasses IS the work, that the open space IS sacred. The forest grows elsewhere, in someone else's dream. I always pictured this 'self' as a statue hidden under layers of something. Now I see it's less sculpture, more sourdough: a living thing that needs feeding and warmth, and is never quite the same from one day to the next. The only mistake is leaving it on the counter to harden.