We tell ourselves the story of ourselves as if there is one unified narrative, one voice, reflecting one “me.” That even if we have aspects of ourselves that differ in opinion and interests, they come from one cohesive and linear storyline. That if we argue with ourselves—who, exactly, is arguing with whom?—it’s normal. If pressed, we might explain it as the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. Most do not see this as indicative of some greater complexity worthy of inquiry but as a swarm of gnats to be swatted away or run from. We assume, at least early on in life, that time changes us only by adding to the story of our one identity, born at birth and gone at death. That even if we manage to change how we see ourselves within ourselves, it will be done by working with what already is, by making conscious choices at both the inevitable and surprising forks in the road.