09/04/2026
I didn’t choose when I arrived, where I arrived, what body I arrived in, or who was standing around the crib when I got here. None of us did. We were dropped into a family, a country, a religion, a class, a race, a neighborhood, a particular moment in history, and before we could even hold our own heads up, people started explaining the world to us. This is God. These are our people. Those are not. This is what girls do. This is what boys do. This is success. This is shameful. This is normal. This is what people like us believe.
And because we were children, we believed them. What else were we supposed to do?
Had I been born five thousand miles away, much of what I once considered obvious might have seemed ridiculous. Had I been born a hundred years earlier, I might have spent my whole life obeying rules I now consider absurd. Had I been born into another family, another economic class, another religion, another body, another country, I might be defending beliefs today that I currently cannot understand anyone defending.
That realization can knock a little arrogance out of you, because suddenly so much of what people are proud of turns out to be something they had absolutely nothing to do with. You didn’t earn your birthplace or your native language. You didn’t earn the passport you were handed, the family money, or the genes. You didn’t even earn the first version of your morality. Somebody gave it to you.
But eventually, if you live long enough and pay attention, something interesting happens. You get a chance to look at the pile.
All this stuff you were handed. Some beautiful. Some useful. Some complete bu****it.
And then, finally, the responsibility becomes yours.
That may be the real work of becoming a person.
We’re all just accidents of our birth.