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Last week, during the process of doing a “hard reset” on my cell phone, I was asked to answer the following security question by the customer service rep:  What’s my favorite food?  For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what I had given as my answer when I had first registered this phone.

“Try steak,” I told him.       

That wasn’t it. 

“Meat?”  Nope.  “Dark chocolate?  Nope.  Neither was Italian food, red wine or mushrooms.  I couldn’t narrow it down because frankly, I don’t really have one favorite.    

Take breakfast.  Some mornings I crave Rice Chex.  Other mornings, I just have to have scrambled eggs.  Sometimes I’m not hungry.    

I felt like I stepped right into that scene from “Runaway Bride,” when Richard Gere is pointing out to Julia Roberts’ character that her choice of “favorite” eggs in the morning changed to match whatever her fiancé du jour preferred.  And because her preference was swayed so easily by others, Gere said, she couldn’t possible know who she really was.     

Now, I’m as much of a sucker for chick flicks as the next girl, but I have a problem with that scene because changing your mind from eggs Benedict to over-easy is superficial and just a preference.   Most of us want a little variety.  And preferences are bound to change over time and have little, if anything, to do with knowing who you are.   

Knowing who you are has to do with your value system, those principles on which you won’t compromise:  honesty, integrity, character and love. 

This whole concept of “knowing who I was” was something I thought a lot about while I watched both parents die, four years apart, in the early 90s.  My parents were well known in our community for their work in church, politics and in multiple charitable organizations.  My mom, a beautiful socialite; my dad a partner in a prestigious law firm.  Together, they traveled the world.  And though they looked good, no one knew what very different people they were inside of our home.

My mom had a mean streak and explosive temper that sometimes erupted in beatings.  She was extremely critical and many of her comments bordered on cruel.   Most mornings, we didn’t know what mood of hers would greet us. 

My dad, who was married to my mother for 40 years and fathered six children, lived a double life for 27 years, hanging out in gay bars and keeping boyfriends in apartments.  Ultimately, he infected himself and my mother with AIDS.  

They both blamed the other for their misery.

The sicker my parents became, the less able they were to do what they were known for in our community.  Near the end of their lives, they were physically unrecognizable. They couldn’t walk, could barely speak and were completely exposed and vulnerable.  Gone was their ability to pretend that what they owned, what they did, where they traveled, how they looked or even, what they preferred to eat for breakfast, defined who they were.     

And as I sat beside them both on their death beds, all I could think was:  what a waste of a life.  To live a life so filled with lies, leaving behind so much pain and heartache.  A few of my siblings wanted nothing to do with my dad; a few couldn’t bear to be with either one of them as they died.  And as my parents each drew their last breaths, the reality of the havoc they had wrought played out in fractured relationships left behind and ensuing years I, and my siblings, spent piecing together our emotional brokenness.    

In the hospice where my mom spent her last days, I talked to other people whose dying parent lay in a nearby room.  It surprised me how many confided what lousy fathers their dads were; or how distant; or how he left their mother for a younger woman, breaking up their family.  Like me, they knew a different man (or woman) than the world outside knew.  Often family members could hardly stand to be in the same room with the person dying—they’d visit once, and I’d never see them again.  It was heartbreaking to watch so many of the people ultimately die alone. 

I remember thinking at the time that I didn’t want to have to go through the process of dying to be stripped bare and find out who I was and what really mattered.  I wanted to stop pretending, right then and there, that I was something I wasn’t based merely on whims and petty preferences.  I wanted to make decisions based on how I’d feel five years later. I wanted to live authentically, letting go of ego and demanding to have my own needs met, choosing instead to live instead based on doing what was right. 

Am I a writer?  Yes.  Am I a mother of four sons?  Yes.  Do I like to cook, work out, read and hang out with my family?  Yes.  But when all is said and done, what kind of human being do I truly want to be?     

Whether we realize it or not, most of us live our lives based on an “unseen observer,” that person we want to impress, please and hear say, “I’m proud of you.”  For some it’s God; for others it’s our father, boss, neighbor, spouse or our children.  

With my parents gone, who was I going to live for, try to impress and please?  What kind of person was I going to be when no one is watching?  What was that going to be based on?   

In a workshop at a women’s retreat I attended shortly after my mom died, I was handed a ball of clay and instructed to make a sculpture that portrayed who I thought I was in God’s eyes.  After sitting there stumped for a very long time, I began to mold my clay into a pitcher, making the opening and its spout just about the same size.  I am no artist, but what I was trying to convey is that I wanted to open myself up as far as possible to allow God to pour Himself into me which would allow me to be filled up so full that I could pour myself into and serve others. 

The other day, my friend Henna told me about meeting a woman at an ashram whose eyes emanated so much love that it made her weep.  Henna, who left behind a six-figure corporate salary to coach women in business, said ever since that experience, she’s wanted to be the kind of person whose eyes made others feel loved and accepted.  She wanted to live a life of meaning, to make an impact on others’ lives. 

I do, too.   

Deciding who I am and what type of person I want to be is something that occurs every moment of every day with every decision I make.  Am I going to lie or tell the truth?  Am I going to lose my temper or hold my tongue?  Am I going to be kind or rude? Am I going to cheat on taxes or not?  What kind of person am I when no one is looking?  Am I going to live a life of secrets or with nothing to hide? 

As I watched my mom gasp for air in her last moments of life, I knew I really wanted to be the same person inside my house, interacting with my children and husband, as I was with work colleagues, my friends and people in the community. 

I am embarrassed to admit how often I fail at this.  But as singer/songwriter Dennis Jernigan says, “When I fail, I get up and turn back toward the goal as though my life depended on it.”

Indeed.  My life—my authentic life—depends on it. 

Diana Keough is a Pulitzer- Prize nominated journalist, the mother of four sons and CEO, co-founder and editor-in-chief of ShareWIK.com. 
   


Read more Diana Keough articles, here. 
 

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