The Boardroom

Meeting with the selves.

I entered the boardroom alone, though the chairs were already filled. Six versions of me looked up as I stepped in. Each had my face, but bore it differently — some softer, some weathered, others sharp with unspoken grief. The light shifted strangely in that room; it bent around them like time itself had become liquid.

I took the seat at the head of the table, heart thudding with the kind of reverence you feel when standing in front of a mirror that doesn’t lie.

The child swung her legs beneath the chair, her feet never quite reaching the floor. Her knees were a patchwork of scrapes and bruises, worn like medals from adventures no one else had witnessed. Even though she was incredibly confused at the emotional unavailability of her parents, and wondered now and then what her fault was, how to be better, to be accepted and loved; she still clutched wonder in her eyes as though it were currency — precious, untouchable, and endlessly renewable.

The teenager sat stiffly, arms crossed like a shield, her gaze a mix of defiance and quiet pleading. She lived in the space between wanting and resignation, desperate to be seen, to be heard, to matter — but convinced she took up too much space simply by existing. She watched life unfold from the periphery, rehearsing courage she never quite used.

The young adult carried the scent of inked lease agreements and sleepless ambition. Her steps were quick and her calendar was always full. She wore independence…