The Frosted Window

Who am I?

It seems like a strange question to still be asking at 48 years old, but here I am.

If a stranger asked me who I am, my first response would probably be:

"I am a wife, a mother, a daughter, a volunteer, a caregiver."

While all of those things are true, they're also things I do. They aren't necessarily who I am.

So who am I?

The longer I sit with that question, the harder it becomes to answer.

When I think about myself, the first things that come to mind are rarely positive. I think about my failures. My shortcomings. The things that make me feel different, inferior, or rejectable. I can list those things far more easily than I can list my accomplishments.

I've spent much of my life trying to figure out who I am and why I'm here.

When I was younger, I often asked God why I had suffered so much. As I've gotten older, I ask that question less. Not because the suffering disappeared, but because I've come to realize that suffering is universal.

There will always be people who have endured far more than I have.

When I find myself slipping into that dark place, I try to count the blessings I do have.

I have a loving husband who is truly my person.

I have three amazing children.

We have a roof over our heads, food in our cupboards, and people who care about us.

I have wonderful in-laws.

I've finally started travelling and seeing parts of the world I've only dreamed about.

I'm involved with a non-profit organization that I love and that means something to me.

These are gifts.

Yet sometimes, when I'm struggling, those same blessings create guilt. I know there are people who would give anything to have even one of those things.

It's a strange place to be—grateful and hurting at the same time.

I think one thing all human beings have in common is suffering. No one escapes it. It may look different from person to person, but it touches all of us eventually.

Yesterday, my daughter and I were talking about childhood memories.

Is it normal not to remember much of your childhood?

I don't know.

What I do know is that when I look back, the memories that surface first are often the painful ones.

For as long as I can remember—probably since I was about three years old—I have carried a feeling that I don't quite belong.

The only place I consistently feel that sense of belonging is inside the four walls of my home, with my husband and the children who still live with us.

When I was young, I spent summers in Nova Scotia visiting my mother, siblings, grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles.

Those summers were magical.

I felt loved.

I felt wanted.

I felt connected.

Being there reminded me of what life had felt like before I moved to Alberta as a small child.

The happiness was tangible. I could feel it in my chest.

I took endless photographs during those visits because photographs were all I had once I returned home. Sometimes five years would pass before I saw everyone again.

Those pictures became proof.

Proof that I had a family.

Proof that I belonged somewhere.

Proof that happiness existed.

As I got older, though, something changed.

Even when I was surrounded by family in Nova Scotia, I began to feel like an outsider.

I knew it wasn't really my life.

I knew it would end.

I knew I would eventually leave again.

I once described the feeling to a therapist like this:

I am standing outside a warm house on a cold winter day. The windows are frosted over. I wipe away a small circle and look inside.

My family is there.

They're laughing and talking.

And somehow, I'm in there too.

But I'm also outside.

Looking in.

That image has stayed with me for years because it perfectly captures how I've often felt.

Part of things.

Yet separate from them.

During my teenage years, things became harder.

I remember calling my mother collect from a payphone at school, crying and begging her to let me come live with her.

The answer was always the same.

She couldn't.

Whether that was true or not isn't really the point.

What I felt was rejection.

Then there was the bullying.

Kids can be cruel.

Apparently, I was a fat, ugly bitch.

Apparently, my head needed pounding in every day on the school bus ride home.

Each day felt like a no-win situation.

Take the bus and get beaten up.

Pretend to be sick and miss school.

Or fake illness at school and force my dad to leave work to pick me up.

No matter what I chose, I lost.

And every experience reinforced the same message:

There is something wrong with you.

You don't belong.

Even now, those old messages linger.

Every text message I send.

Every conversation I have.

Every interaction with another human being.

Part of me still wonders whether they think I'm strange.

Whether they're simply being polite.

Whether they see the same flaws I see.

So who am I?

The truth is, I still don't know.

The answer is a work in progress.

What I do know is that my experiences have given me tremendous empathy for people who feel different.

For people who don't fit neatly into boxes.

For people who struggle.

For people standing outside their own frosted window looking in.

Over the years, I've collected a handful of diagnoses.

But are those things who I am?

Not really.

Lately I've been wondering if there are still pieces missing from the puzzle.

In the coming weeks, I'll be undergoing adult ADHD and autism assessments.

Oddly enough, I'm hopeful.

Not because I want another label.

But because understanding why I experience the world the way I do might help me understand myself a little better.

Maybe it will add a few more pieces to a puzzle I've been trying to solve for nearly five decades.

A puzzle where I don't yet know what the finished picture is supposed to look like.

Until next time, be yourself—no matter the cost.

I need to practice that too. ❤️