Jennifer Sidewalker was my childhood alter ego.  She was strong, beautiful, and capable of mastering any skill she took the whim to pick up.  She was an innovative surgeon, a super-stealthy ninja, sweetest of America’s Sweethearts. Jennifer Sidewalker, as one Ms. Houston would say, was Every Woman.

And just as she was with me at age five, so is she with me still. She has toned herself down a bit; as I grew older, Jennifer Sidewalker matured with me, and she began to acknowledge my limitations.  So that my daydreaming wouldn’t feel so far-fetched, she began to investigate more reasonable career choices.

She would be an inspiring teacher.  A struggling but committed actor.  A poised and professional Sign Language interpreter.  She would live in a loft and wear her hair in a careless bun.  Or she’d have a town house and a sleek, professional style.  She’d marry an architect or a musician or no one at all.  Sometimes Jennifer was quick-witted and sharp-tongued.  Sometimes she was bubbly.  Sometimes she was guarded, maybe a little jaded.

This is the joy of the alter ego.  Through Jennifer Sidewalker, I could play the roles I didn’t know how to play in real life.

But here is the danger of alter egos:  it’s easy (especially for us dreamers) to forget the true purpose of the alter ego.

Jennifer’s job was to help me play pretend.  She was there for some healthy daydreaming and to give me a second self to channel when circumstances in life required me to step out of character a bit.  But I spent so much time with her . . . so much time admiring and adoring her . . . that I got her mixed up with myself—with Regular Abi, the person I was, am, and will actually be.

I had myself convinced that the lives I dreamed up for Jennifer were the lives I wanted for myself.  So I pursued each one for a while, only to be disappointed with myself for a lack of motivation and a childlike level of devotion.  I felt like I was twelve again, fudging the truth when my guitar instructor asked me how much I’d practiced that week.  I wasn’t a passionate guitar player, no matter how much I wanted to be.  It was all about trying to be the type of person who loves the guitar.

So I half-heartedly pursued Jennifer Sidewalker’s life, until my brother (intentionally or unintentionally, I am not sure) reminded me who I was.  He suggested we collaborate on a screenplay, and—like any little sister would—I eagerly accepted the opportunity to work with him.  For the first time in ages, I wrote for the fun of it.  And for the first time in ages, I felt the perfect joy of being where I was supposed to be, of doing what I was supposed to be doing, of honoring who I was, fascinating or not.

I finally understood that there is no reason to want to be Jennifer Sidewalker; I am not inherently programmed to love any of the lives she leads.  I may want to love the ninja lifestyle, but the fact is, I don’t.  I love choosing words and putting them in the best order to convey certain truths. That’s what I love.  It’s nothing to alert the papers about, and no one in their right mind would want to watch me do it, but it’s what matters to me.  It’s what brings me joy.  It’s right.

Jennifer’s still around, but she’s resumed her post as Super-Abi.   She’s great company on long drives, but I don’t let her hang around too much when I’m making plans and designing my life.

What about you? Are you in tune with who you really are . . . with your genuine passions? Do you ever catch yourself stifling your true self in favor of an alter ego?  What choices are you making in life to honor the person you really are?