I had to find my birth certificate today. 

We were in the middle of some paperwork when this unexpected request was made, and I had to rummage through my Google Drive to retrieve it. 

So you’re telling me, as a functional human being who’s very much alive, I need to carry around a piece of paper to prove that I was born? Is my person—my body, my mind, my experiences—not evidence enough of my existence? To top it all off, my birth certificate didn’t have my name on it, because it wasn’t given to me until several weeks after my mum took me home. So my “proof” of existence simply states that a “baby” was born in so&so hospital on the 9th of November 1990. (Um, I guess that proves I wasn’t a wombat or an iguana at birth?)

And then, think about all these other documents you grasp against your chest when you move from one college to another, one job to another, one city or country to another. Laminated flat rectangles with important information that prove you’re worthy of education, employment or emigration. That you’re a good person who played by the rules and deserves a seat to a better life. What you studied, how you fared, where you worked, how you did – it’s all there. My qualifications, my marks, my achievements, my privilege, stacked neatly in a folder. A folder that can get me rejected on a technicality. A folder that tells people “See? I did everything you asked me to do. Now, where’s the life I was promised?”

Who will I be if I lose every single one of these precious papers? What if I didn’t have to show you why I deserve what I want, or need, or yearn for? What if I could tell you, write to you, sing or paint or dance to you to tell you my life’s stories? If you let me, if the world lets me, I’d tell you I’m a good person. I know that because I once accidentally killed a moth, and then felt terrible about it. So I said sorry to it, buried it, placed flowers around it, and gave it a proper funeral service. 

I’d tell you old people make me cry. Old people in love make me bawl. Little acts of kindness make my heart swell. I like watching videos of baby turtles hatching and flamingoes learning to stand on one leg. I let my emotions grab me by my pinky and carry me to strange places. I follow people who save the world through their art, expression, activism, revolution, and love. I love hard. I love soft. I want little. I want everything all at once. 

I’d tell you that my dreams are small. I dream of sitting by a fireplace in a small, cosy house with the softest snowfall falling outside. I dream of fluffy socks on hardwood floors. I dream of a pretty kettle of tea next to a potted plant. I dream of old libraries and rustic pubs. I dream of running into strangers who become close friends, and running into old friends who become best friends. I dream of cups of tea over platefuls of stories and laughter. I dream of healing—myself and others—through my words and actions. 

I’d tell you I’m learning how to express myself without thinking of how I’ll be perceived. And that it’s a struggle. I’m realising it’s okay to love myself, no matter how sacrilegious it may seem. I’d tell you I’m a nice person, trying to be kinder, calmer, more patient. 

Would you believe me and allow me into your world?

Maybe someday we’ll come up with a document that captures the essence of who we are. What moves our soul, what makes us human, what makes us giggle and break and love. Until that day, I’ll carry my trusty folder and place it inside secure drawers of every place I make my own.