Ambrose doesn’t look at me right away. He’s still watching the fire deep in thought, though he nods slightly. A minute or two later, when he does turn to face me, he asks, “Have you ever heard the thought experiment of The Ship of Theseus?”
“No, I don’t think so.” I shake my head and wonder where he’s going with this, pulling my knees up into the seat and wrapping my arms around them.
“Imagine that after he returns from his journey, the ship that Theseus sailed on is taken from the water and put in a museum. Over time, though, its wooden boards start to rot or break, so piece by piece, every part is replaced. Eventually,none of the original material remains. So the question is—is it still the same ship?”
My brow furrows as I turn the idea over in my mind. “Well, if everything has changed, wouldn’t that make it a different ship?”
“Maybe,” he says. “But at what point does it becomenotthe Ship of Theseus? When you’ve replaced one board? When you’ve replaced half? When you’ve replaced all of them?”
I hum, contemplating.
“I mean, it would make sense if halfway was the tipping point, right?”
He doesn’t answer my question but instead posits a new scenario. “So let’s apply this to people, then. If someone, throughout the course of their life, had every major organ transplant possible—skin, heart, kidney, etcetera. If more than half of their body parts end up being replacements, are they still the same person?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s different.”
“How?”
“Because people aren’t sentient objects. They have personalities and thoughts.”
“Okay, so if you take someone’s brain, which holds all their behaviors and personality traits, and transplant that into someone else’s body…” he trails off, letting me continue the line of thinking.
“Ugh, this is confusing.”
“That’s the point,” he chuckles. “It’s the question of what makes something what it is? Its physical parts, or its essence?”
I rest my chin on my knees, watching the fire curl around a half-burned log. “So how does this apply to me?”
“We all go through things, getting hurt and learning fromour experiences, but we replace parts of ourselves as we live on—beliefs, behaviors, identities. Some pieces break and don’t come back the same, some get stronger, and some fall away entirely. Will you always be the same woman, or do those ever-changing parts of yourself mean your identity becomes something new?”
“So, what’s the answer?”
“That’s the thing,” he says. “There is no right answer. It’s up to you to decide who you are.”
I’m silent for a long time, mulling over the question. I didn’t expect to have so much of a philosophical conversation tonight, but leave it to Ambrose to get me to consider the complexities of identity.
He doesn’t rush me by adding layers to the conversation or asking me what I think. He simply lets me sit with my thoughts and ruminate.
It’s an interesting question, though: what makes me, me?
Finally, I voice my fears. “I just don’t know how I’ll ever be able to see myself as anything other than… this.”
“I don’t mean to overstep,” Ambrose says, “but I think it’s time to stop defining yourself by your past and start deciding who youwantto be. Your past will never cease to exist, but there is so much more to you than the pain you’ve experienced.”
I swallow hard as the words sink in. He’s right. I’ll never be able to forget what it’s like to be in the depths of despair, alone and broken, but I no longer want to be defined by what has caused me pain. I’ve only just begun to reclaim some of my power, but I can continue to do so until the broken version of me is barely recognizable.
Sparks snap in the fire as a log breaks, and I take a deep breath, coming to terms with whatever epiphany I’ve just had.
“I’ve spent so long surviving,” I say to Ambrose. “Just pushing from one day to the next. It felt like a losing battle, so I told myself I couldn’t afford to dream, or hope, or want too much. I just had to make it through.”
Ambrose doesn’t interrupt, but his eyes bore into me, reflecting the orange flames.
I continue, “But it feels like something is shifting lately. I actually want to do more than simply survive. I want a life that’s wholly, entirely mine.”
Something solemn crosses his features. “And you’ll have that life soon.”
He doesn’t say what both of us are thinking—that as much as I want my freedom, he still holds the keys to my cage. I won’t be free until he allows me to be.
