As I drive the many hours towards my childhood home, my roots, I find myself thinking of my life. The past, the present, the future. Highways have a way of doing that, I suppose. Fill minds with thoughts, pressuring the soul to grow, learn, move forward.
We tend to compare children to their parents. "So and so is just like her mom" or "Did you see that? That's the spitting image of her father".
I suppose that's how we begin to create identities for ourselves, our children.
I've been told that I look like my mom but favor my dad when it comes to everything else.
During this last trip I purposefully asked questions that dug a little deeper into my parents' past, specifically, their parents. I wanted to dig further about my roots. My heritage.
I was surprised by the answers. Not the answers specifically but what they stirred in me. Instead of trying to find an identity in the stories, I found an independence I didn't know I longed.
I found that I did indeed have parts of my mom and dad. Personality traits, quirks, etc... But on the flip side there are many things that are mine. Uniquely mine.
I think I feared it before. Who I was. Who I was once I left my country. My family. My roots.
And as I drive the many hours towards my adulthood home, I find myself grieving for the distance that separates me from my family, but joyful in my new found identity.
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