Somewhere, somebody remembers you younger than you can currently imagine yourself being.

Someone still holds a picture of you at an age you can barely reconstruct, small, unformed, before anything you now think of as yourself had arrived. To them, part of you will always be that person, which is strange and also a kind of continuity you cannot maintain on your own.

If those people are still around, ask them what you were like. The details are usually surprising and sometimes explain something you thought you had developed later. You are getting access to a stretch of your own life that exists only in other people’s keeping.