Is it my height, my hair, the color of my eyes?

Or is it the clothes I wear, or the car that I drive?

On the outside, that might be,

But that’s not how I think of me.

I think of me as someone who cares,

Who’s generous, kind, and always shares.

Someone that thinks family is everything,

And when they’re in need, I’d do anything.

They’ve made me, me, I guess you could say.

The troubles I’ve faced with them, have made me who I am today.

The divorce, disease, sickness and health,

Have all shaped me, and formed me, into the woman I am.

But I think most of all what makes me, me,

Is the way I see myself, not how others see me.

I am the only one who knows how I feel, who I truly am,

And what makes me, me, no one else will ever really understand.