Another year older and still the bare-foot tangled-hair tomboy of nine. Still the striving for perfection teenager. Nerdy but “in a cool way”. Still the young adult who grew up a little and learned to live (cue tattoo addiction of twenty twelve). The medical student who leg go of some of that perfection; let go and let be, but never entirely. The twenty seven year old with a restless soul who lived on the ocean, always aimed at the horizon. The version of me who still loves the smell of wild jasmine and searches the inside covers of second-hand books for hints of previous owners. The thirty-something who cannot survive more than a couple of days without feeling the mountain beneath her feet. Who is confident and self-assured ninety-nine percent of the time. And worried that she is not doing enough to deserve all the good things in her life the other one percent. But decidedly thrilled to be alive one hundred percent of the time. Another year older and they are all still in here somewhere. Multitudes of me. Thirty three and thriving. Since ninety one.