How do I find myself when I don't even remember when I disappeared?

I came a cross a post where a therapist had asked 10 questions to help answer this.

1. What's the first thing about myself I remember giving up to keep the peace?
Not a big thing. Something small. An opinion. A preference. A boundary. That was the first payment.
My opinion. My preference. 

2. Who was the first person I edited myself for?
Notice how young you were. Notice how automatic it became. Notice how you've been editing for people who didn't even know they were reading.
My father.

3. What did I love as a kid that I have stopped letting myself love?
The interest. The style. The version of you that got excited too easily. She got embarrassed out of you. She didn't die. She just went underground.
Singing.

4. What part of me shows up when I'm around people who feel safe?
That's her. That's the one you gave away. She's still in there. She just only comes out for people who won't take her.
My smart mouth.

5. When did I decide who I actually was wasn't enough?
Someone reacted. Someone withdrew. Someone loved the smaller version more. And you decided the trade was worth it. You've been living inside that decision since.
When my brothers told me I had no friends and I started to believe them.

6. What parts of me do people say they miss that I haven't seen in years?
The laugh. The confidence. The spark. Notice how many of the compliments live in past tense. That's the map back to where you left her.

7. What am I most afraid of if I let her come back?
That she'd be too much. That the people who love the current version would leave. That the life you've built wasn't built for her. Every fear is real. None of them is a reason to stay small.
People withdrawing or leaving without explanation. 

8. What would I have to grieve if I actually became her again?
The relationship built on the smaller version. The identity you constructed around her absence. The years you spent thinking she was gone. Grief is the cost of return. Not the reason to stay away. 

9. Who in my life would celebrate her, and who would be threatened by her?
Two lists. Notice which one is shorter. Notice which one has been running your life. That imbalance is the ceiling you've been living under.
Ben                                Libby
Abi
Jenny
Lachlan
Niko

10. If she walked back in tonight, what's the first thing she'd say?
Say it out loud. That sentence is your homecoming. That sentence has been waiting years to leave your mouth.

"You didn't misplace yourself. You gave her away in pieces to people who couldn't hold her. The work isn't finding her. It's calling her back."