I had much to figure out. In my head, I was ten-year-old Sitara. To this new world, I was twelve-year-old Aryana. And in truth, I wasn’t strong enough to shoulder two identities and two nationalities. I survived by letting Sitara go, adding her to the body count of the palace coup. I tucked away the family I’d lost, the childhood I’d had.

I became Aryana. We told the world that Mom had adopted me and we knew little about my background. As soon as I said those words, people usually remembered something they needed to do or told me about an adopted cousin who was so beloved by all their family. Few asked any more questions.

I learned to eat new foods. I learned to speak new words. I learned to (mostly) sleep through the night and survive the brutal headaches.

I took on Mom’s last name and officially became Aryana Shephard, the girl who fell from the sky.

Mom became my therapist, my teacher, and my parent. She bought pads of paper and watercolor paints. We would sit on a bench and try to re-create the fleet of white sails in the sparkling Chesapeake Bay. We hiked in the fall and pressed sunset-colored leaves into the pages of books. We made a fire and dug through Tilly’s scrapbooks, filled with newspaper clippings, programs, and pictures of her in various costumes.

I felt less alone. I began to wake feeling better rested. I spent less time in a dark room waiting for the pills to loosen the vise on my head.

Mom noticed the difference too. When we couldn’t hike, she would still insist on a long walk.

“Want to race?” she asked playfully one day. The sidewalk stretched long and clear ahead of us. When I laughed, she put her hands on her hips and issued a challenge. “Do you think I’m too fast for you?”

She broke into a jog.

I broke into a run.

I ran daily after that, despite the pain I felt when the knobby flesh on the sole of my foot pounded against concrete. I ran to feel like the girl who used to think the world was hers to run through. I ran to confirm that nothing was holding me by my ankles. After every run, I would lean over with my hands on my thighs and take long, heaving gulps of air until the burn in my lungs dissipated. I’d lived until then not realizing what a privilege it was to be able to catch my breath.

One day Mom sat me down and told me she’d been offered a post in Turkey.