Ana realized she had a deep, unexamined belief: If I am spontaneous, I will be punished. Her father had punished her tears. Zoran had punished her passion. The world, she had learned, rewards restraint.

And for the first time in forty-three years, Ana was willing to be a work in progress. End of story.

She did not know if she was finally herself or finally many selves. She only knew that the question no longer terrified her. Personality, she had learned, is not a destination. It is the ongoing, messy, beautiful process of becoming.

“So I am a chameleon.”