For years, I’d told myself that doing good meant I was good. That doing better made me better. Yet looking back I can’t help but wonder if family dynamics, insecurities, and jealousies had warped me to the point where I no longer knew if I did things because I wanted to or because it was what pleased someone I loved. And if the latter, then what did that mean, and who was I, really? Was I someone with the courage to do what needed to be done when it wouldn’t please others—specifically my mother?
