I was an only child, and I used to wish for a sister. I never got one, but I found friends who became sisters to me.
I wanted to be liked. And in high school, who didn’t? I wasn’t a terribly good scholar; I did love all my English and writing classes, but the rest; not so much. I certainly wasn’t an athlete; I stunk at sports. I tried to be cool and failed miserably. However, my friends liked me no matter what, and I found that this mattered far more to me than being popular.
The one constant that remained from then until now is writing. No matter what job I held in my life, I was always a writer. I am still writing, and I always will write. I finally realized that this life I have is my real life. There’s nothing wrong with it; this is where I am comfortable. I know myself well enough now to fit comfortably in this body, mind and soul that I inhabit, and that’s fine with me.
I think that we all eventually find our place in the world, and our various “tribes” in which to belong. My closest friends are more precious to me as the years go by. Not only do we share memories and experiences, but we also share our growth and change.
Embracing these changes and having good friends, old and new; becomes our safe place, our refuge, our sisters and brothers in spirit. We are who we are because of their influence on our lives. How much poorer would we be without them?
All of my fake bits and posturing is packed away in mothballs. At some point I will take a good look at them, smile, and then toss them out; lessons learned.