The river at the mouth has carried something from every mile. You’re made of everywhere you’ve been.

Everything you have passed through is still in you somewhere. By the time a river reaches its end it is carrying something from every mile it crossed, including the ugly stretches, and none of that gets filtered out on arrival. Your own mixture includes the school you hated, the year that went badly, the town you were glad to leave. Those are not contamination. They are part of what gives you weight.

Pick a stretch you would rather not claim. Name one thing it put in you that you use now, and let that count.