Yet through it all, every storm, every tremor of ground beneath my feet, I stood. Some days it took every ounce of strength in me to do so, but I stood. I was here, I was alive. The war was quelling, the battle I waged daily with myself and my past, who I was, who I want to be, and who I am. Moreover, I began to realize what I was not. I was not a number on a scale, the amount of calories in a day. I was not one out of every four women. My identity was not in cold calculations nor was I merely a product of objective adding and taking away. My soul is made up of infinite parts and there are oceans growing inside me.