My husband told me during one of our many random conversations that you aren't who you think you are. You are, in fact, who other people think you are. I have thought about that one simple statement for years, and though he may not know it, I think about it often. There is no one real answer to "who are you?", the outcome of the question is ever changing, evolving and dependent on who you ask.
To my children, I am tough and nurturing. I am their hero who saves them from the giant and I am the giant who chases them around the house growling "fe-fi-fo-fum!". I am the doctor who kisses their boo-boos, the storyteller, the good-night kisser who tucks them into bed every night.
To my mother, I am her baby. Her last born, all grown up with a family of my own. I am her spaghetti sauce taste tester, her student, her mess maker, her free spirited, strong willed, stubborn as a mule, baby.
To my clients, I am a magician. I freeze time, capturing images of their memories. I am patient, goofy, and willing to go the extra distance. I am a tom boy who hikes through ten feet of sticker bushes because "the light is so pretty from here".
To me, I am a hot mess. My ideas, hopes and dreams keep me up at night. I am an open book, a coffee addict, a complete and utter dork.