We all have one. The story that defines us. It may be a story you tell about yourself. Or, a story that others tell about you. Or the story you BELIEVE others tell about you. And for many of us, it’s all of those. When do our stories begin? For me, it began before my first childhood memory. My story began before I was born, with my grandmother, my Omi. Because the attitudes and perspectives that my Omi passed along to my mother were then passed along to me. And they are part of my story. It is a story I’ve been told many times. “You were always such a happy child.” The pictures seem to confirm that. And I remember countless instances of laughing until I peed my pants, being carefree and lost in my own world. But there was also the part of the story that was filled with comparison to others – to my friends who could wear bikinis at the beach, the cheerleaders, the girls who all the boys had a crush on. I wanted to be those girls. But, you see, I was fat. By age...