That short introduction to someone new—your name, what you do. Someone probably heard the same words from you a year ago. You said it so many times the words got hard and you drifted away from them. When she rewrote it every month, she discovered something: the distance between who you were and who you say you are is slow poison.
Same words, and you become someone else
You summarize your past. Your title, your job, the last project—they're old news by the time you speak them. The real you keeps moving but the sentence stays. Each time you repeat it, you're less in it. You're reading the past out loud. Inside you, something's shifting and your outside stays fixed.