Sparkling Escapades Abroad with the Fairy Bra Mother

My thoughts have been sitting with a question asked in a book I’m reading.
A small person asked his great uncle, “If I wasn’t me… who would I be?”

That question hasn’t let me go.

If I weren’t the me I am today, I think I would be hard.
Unforgiving. Sharp-edged with anyone who hurt me or didn’t do what I wanted. I would protect myself by never letting anyone close enough to matter.

I’d be made up—flashy hair, probably hot pink. Heavy makeup. Bold lipstick. Long pink fingernails I couldn’t bite off even if I tried. Everything on the outside loud enough to distract from what lived underneath.

I’d be slim and trim, working relentlessly to keep my body in shape.

Pain-free. A body untouched by more than twenty-five surgeries. A body that never betrayed me.

I would have had six children—three boys and three girls—because in that version of life, everything would be balanced and orderly.

I’d wear clothing that isn’t modest. Flashy colors. After all, I’d have the body for it.

Or maybe I would have been a “good” Mennonite mom.
Doing everything exactly like the other women. A big garden. Flowerbeds overflowing. Canning and freezing every harvest. A house always clean, neat, and picked up. Doing it all myself—no hired help, no visible cracks, no room for weakness.

I definitely wouldn’t be a working mom.
I never would have learned how to fit glasses, type medical reports, or fit bras.
Or maybe—knowing me—I would have been excellent at all of it anyway.

I would be sweet. Submissive. Easy to love.

No one would question why I am the way I am. No one would need explanations or backstory. I would simply fit.

I would have grown up in my biological parents’ home—and that, I believe, would have been a disaster. I would have turned to alcohol or drugs. I might not have survived myself at all.

And when I sit with all of that long enough, this is where I land:
If I weren’t me, I might look stronger, prettier, easier, or more acceptable.
But I don’t think I would be kinder.

I don’t think I would be safer for others to rest with.

And I don’t think I would know how to love with the depth that comes only from having been broken and still choosing tenderness.

So maybe the question isn’t who would I be if I wasn’t me…

Maybe the quieter answer is this:
I am who I am because I survived what I didn’t choose.

And even on the days I wish I were someone else,
this version of me is the one who knows how to stay.