‘Nobody’s perfect, but who wants to be a nobody?’ – I think I read that on a greetings card when I was younger.

Nobody is a nobody. We all become somebody. Everybody is somebody, you might say. Anyway, the point is, I’ve been having this re-occurring sensation recently that who I am is being decided. Like the cement is begging to set.

I think I have grown up with great faith in my own autonomy – the future is wide open, waiting to be defined. I am becoming. I am a youth with everything to play for. Mistakes are not my mistakes, because I am not myself yet. What you see is not you will get, not half. I am in the future. Or that is how it was.

But now I am a little older, am I still in the future, or this me? This is me.

There is still time to change, I know. There is always change. As the postmodernists would say, I am always becoming, never arriving.

But I can’t shake the feeling that there is a little less room for maneuver. I am maturing and the shape is being revealed. Mistakes are my mistakes. Maturity. But, also, I take strength from this. I can feel at home in my skin, because it is my skin. It is familiar, and there is security, and something solid to carry forward.