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If you truly want to find yourself, you have to give yourself permission to be who you are. So many of us are playing roles in life, roles we may not even realize we are playing. How many can look into a mirror and see their true self? How many can answer the question, who am I? We know what we believe in, what we stand for and who we are supposed to be, at least we think we do. Life often dictates the path we will follow even though our heart may have made different plans.

I am trying to find my true self; it is not an easy task. So long have I hidden my own hopes and dreams, my wants and desires for the sake of those I love most. I don't regret setting these things aside in hopes of finding them again someday but I often wonder if they are worth finding. I am certainly not the same person I was when I first wanted them. Some have been fulfilled, perhaps not in the way I would have imagined but they have been fulfilled nonetheless.

I have hopes and dreams now I didn't have then. It's funny, when I think of this I am reminded of a song we sang as children, "Make new friends, but keep the old, one is silver and the others gold". I suppose we could apply this innocent principle in our own search for self. We don't have to give up all things past, maybe we simply need to incorporate them into our present and on into our future. I think I can say with utmost certainty the thoughts I think today will be different than the ones of tomorrow. Not all, the essence of me within them will remain. It's not unlike the petals of a rose. The beautiful bud opens as it blooms, petal atop petal give it beauty and substance.

Eventually the outer petals begin to wilt and fall, some meet the ground with the perfection of their beauty still bright, others have wilted and browned, they fade into the earth becoming a part of something greater. Those which fell with color and form can be preserved and cherished. Even once a rose has seen its final dawn it can remain forever beautiful if cared for. Petals between the pages of a book, color rich and beautiful still, but they must stay where they are. There is an unmistakable and unexpected beauty in the sight of a perfectly dried rose. Its color has faded but can still be seen; its petals are brittle and can crumble with the slightest touch of even the most delicate finger.

I see my old hopes and dreams in the way I see the rose. Sometimes they are the petals, fallen and preserved. They remain, different than they once were but they remain.

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