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What we call our self is a constellation of moments, memories, and stories - fragments of experience held together by the fragile illusion of wholeness. Identity is as much a mosaic as it is a mirror, each piece carrying a trace of who we were, who we are, and who we have yet to be. But sometimes the mosaic shatters, and with it comes a disorienting, painful fracture that shakes our sense of continuity. We may hurt. We may mourn the selves we can no longer be. Yet even then, we are not broken. We are just becoming.