This past weekend I re-read a book that has sat on my shelf for a while. A book I haven’t picked up in quite some time. But a book I felt I needed to read again.

The book?

Fran Drescher’s Being Wendy. 

I admit, when the book was published back in 2011, it first caught my eye because of the title. There are only a few claims to fame for fellow Wendy’s:  my name is said to have been invented by J. M. Barrie for his “frendy Wendy” character in Peter Pan, and I’ve got a hamburger fast food chain that shares my name.

But I re-read the book, because I needed to be reminded that I don’t have to fit into just one box, that one single thing doesn’t define me.

(In case you’re not familiar with the book, Being Wendy is the story of Wendy, a young girl who doesn’t want to choose to wear one box for the rest of her life. In her hometown, the rule is : “The Boxville way is to choose a box for the rest of your days.”  She doesn’t want to just be a teacher, just be a police officer, just be any one thing.  Her ideas and her dreams are too far-reaching, and one box just won’t work for her.)

Lately, it’s easy to lose sight of that. 

I have been dealing with a multitude of tests and consultations with doctors, and in my experience, doctors don’t always take the time to see their patients as complete people. 

And I don’t want to just fit into my “chronic illness” box.

I need to remind myself that there are so many other parts of me, so many other aspects of my personality that have nothing at all to do with the persistent pain in my left leg.

I’m a reader.

I’m a writer.

I’m a sunflowers-over-roses type of woman.

I’m a silver-over-gold type of woman.

I’m a singing-along-to-Abba-while-I-cook-dinner type of woman.

I’m a never-learned-to-whistle type of woman.

I’m a jewelry-wearer.

I’m a candle-burner.

I’m a chocolate-eater.

I’m an apple-juice-with-breakfast type of woman.

I’m a daily-to-do-list writer.

I’m a believer in good omens and signs.

I’m a pen pal.

I’m a former florist.

I’m a current home gardener.

And the list could go on. Which makes me smile.

I’m not just a woman with an autoimmune disease. 

Regardless of what the tests show or don’t show, I’m so much more.