ABSTRACT
Identity is the fabric of a person woven by their tribe. My tribe consisted of my father, mother, and brother, each instrumental in shaping me and how I projected myself onto the world. And although I was fortunate to be brought up by two loving parents, my father raised me. I look like my father, think like my father, talk like my father, write like my father – I even became a teacher just like my father. My sense of self rested confidently on his shoulders. Hence, when those shoulders that carried me so steadily for 31 years were suddenly removed from out under me, my identity – like our family system – shattered. The intensity of my grief was so severe, and my suffering was so prolonged that I was unsure of my fate.
