Hidden in the back of my bookshelf is a dusty old scrapbook that I made in my seventh grade Language Arts class. It is tawdry and tacky, just what you would expect a 13-year-old to find beautiful.
While I flipped through pages of flashy stickers and poorly written poems, something caught my eye. A page tucked in the back was titled “Who am I?”
I couldn’t tell you why my seventh grade teacher thought that 13-year-olds were qualified to answer that question, but my response makes it clear that I was not.

On that page I defined myself in terms of other people. I was my parents’ daughter, my brother’s sister, my friends’ friend. Nowhere in that paragraph did I truly answer the question, “Who am I?”

Our families and friends have a profound impact on our lives. They are the people we admire, confide in and trust. However, the people around us cannot completely define us. They can only shape who we are. We define ourselves.

Everyone I have encountered in my life has changed me in some way, even if it was as small as my nursery school teacher gently suggesting that I stop scribbling outside the lines. Yet in the end, the crayon was in my hand.

We can’t always control what happens to us, but we can always control how we react. Whether we merely stumble or take a hard fall, the manner in which we pick ourselves back up helps determine who we are.

Even the smallest choices we make, actions we take and words we speak accumulate. They are the things that make us unique. They help us articulate who we are.

Who I am has little to do with who my family and friends are, but more to do with the decisions I’ve made and the character that I have developed along the way.

I assumed that by the time I left high school, I would finally be able to answer the question, “Who am I?” But with graduation approaching quickly, I am no closer than I was when I pasted together that scrapbook.

I know that I am no longer that shy freshman hiding behind bifocals and braces. I know that I cannot sing and I’ll never be a natural athlete.

I know who I am not, but I’m still figuring out who I am.

That metallic purple page, in that dusty old scrapbook, does not hold the answer to the question “Who am I?” because that answer changes every day.

The answer is not a destination. There will never be a great epiphany or earth-shattering moment where everything falls into place. Instead, defining myself is a journey, and I’m just collecting crayons along the way.

So maybe the question to ask isn’t “Who am I?” but rather, “Who am I right now?”