You can spend years thinking certain things aren’t for you. You know yourself, and it’s just not you, to do this, to try that.

And it’s good, in a sense, to know who you are, to know your limits.

But, limits.

I’ve spent 30 years fearing heights. Avoiding them, dreading them. I once cried standing two meters above the floor. I only realised I hadn’t really left the ground when I looked at the photo.

But recently, I found myself in a harness, on a rope, going up. I didn’t lose it – I thought I would. 20 meters above the floor, I looked down and beamed.

That moment in time. 20 meters above the floor, alive, sane, with my skull intact.

I thought I’d die on that wall, and I didn’t. I thought I was done partying, and I’m not; done running, and I’m not. I thought I’d always be clumsy, worried, weary, and a crap cook. And I’m not – or, not as much.

I thought I knew exactly who I was. And I did; I do. But you can notice your first wrinkles, sign a mortgage, enjoy staying in on Friday night and still reinvent yourself.

I guess I needed to find who I was before I could redefine it. A girl who, slowly, awkwardly, keeps pulling herself up a little higher.