One year ago, I worked at a newspaper. Five days a week, from 2:30 p.m. to 11:30 p.m. I had no social life.
One year ago, I weighed 20 pounds more. And my hair was slightly shorter. Slightly.
One year ago I didn't wear contacts. And I was the new Relief Society President.
One year ago I never listened to country music. And now I find its lyrics so true and so real and so every-day-romantic, I wonder how I ever got along without it.
One year ago I could barely (rock) climb a 5.5. And the most I'd ever run at one time was 3.25 miles. And that was brutal.
One year ago, I feared leaving. Feared foreign lands. Never believed I could learn another language.
One year ago I thought I was old. Today someone asked if I was a student, because I look so young. Age is just a number. And the higher that number gets, the better I like it. Imagine that.
One year ago I was blind to the changes that would be coming. That have come. Big changes. 180s in every facet of my life.
One year ago I still had the same name, the same DNA, the same Social Security number and eye color, but that person one year ago is gone. I'll never know her again, and I'm glad. Glad to have known her, glad to leave her behind, glad to be here now, glad I'll be somewhere else — someone else — tomorrow.