This is the conversion story of St. Paul, a man who spent his existence persecuting Christians until a supernatural experience on the road to Damascus turned everything he believed upside down. Like all stories involving redemptive change, we go on to hear much more about the changed person and the impact of the transformation on their lives. They’re our protagonists, after all. But I’m always interested in the other people involved, the supporting characters on the sidelines. It’s one thing for someone to suddenly evolve and pronounce themselves different, but how are the folks who’ve endured the person’s worst self supposed to react to instant, drastic change? Is everyone expected to brush aside decades of hurt and just roll with the punches (or lack thereof)?

People who can do this have an important story to tell, too. Laying down defenses is hard. After all, there’s a reason those defenses went up in the first place. Over the years, they served as protection against the person who now stands there claiming they’ll never do that again.

How do you grant second chances when setting aside your shield leaves you vulnerable to attack?

Of course, most of us have been on the other side of this scenario as well. We’re the ones who’ve changed yet still find that others define us by outmoded definitions of who we once were. It’s frustrating to be forever labeled the difficult one, the ditzy one, the tactless one, the screw-up …especially when we’ve worked hard to understand and outgrow less desirable aspects of ourselves. The process of change is further complicated by the fact that for most of us, no matter how hard we strive to be better, there’s always a kernel of doubt inside, a little voice that wonders if we’re capable of improvement at all. Maybe the other person is actually right about us.

Maya Angelou famously said, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” She wasn’t necessarily wrong. I don’t think allowing others to change means parking our discernment and letting ourselves become selfless punching bags. We don’t have to blindly accept assertions that things are different now, or even rule out the fact that not all changes are for the better. We can keep whatever distance we need until we feel secure. But maybe we also can be brave enough to give people the space and opportunity necessary to prove to us that they’ve grown. Supporting each other’s sincere efforts to be better than we were before might benefit us all.

We’re safer when we believe we know exactly how people will act and protect ourselves accordingly. But we potentially miss a lot, too.

So much was changing. I was two months pregnant, and my husband and I had just left our much-loved downtown apartment for our first home a few miles north. The clerking gig was my foray into the professional world. If I did well at the law firm that summer, I’d have a job when I graduated from law school at the end of the next school year. A “work mug” seemed appropriate, especially since I drank coffee in amounts measurable in vats rather than cups.

Both the mug and I returned to the law firm after graduation the following year, where it lived on my desk between trips to the coffee station, other offices, and conference rooms.

We both came home for good a few years later. The mug transitioned seamlessly while I learned that women toting briefcases got more respect than women toting baby carriers, and that tasks completed at home would not stay “done.” We navigated toddler ballet, preschool, and a new baby. Each morning, before everyone woke up, my hands would slip comfortably around the mug as I let it remind me that I had once practiced law.

We moved to a different house. The mug accompanied me on car rides to new schools and new activities. It provided boatloads of coffee as I shared my kids’ experiences and discoveries. Most of the mug’s glaze had worn off, and it was starting to lose heat more quickly. Still, it remained “me.” Nobody else every reached for it or even asked if they could use it. I started to joke that if the mug ever broke, I would probably collapse as well. We were intertwined. We shared memories of another place, another time.

My girls graduated from college and shot out into their own adventures. Traitorous thoughts of replacing the mug occasionally crossed my mind, especially when my coffee cooled only minutes after I poured it. I found beautiful mugs in pottery stores and at craft fairs, but I never pulled the trigger. Even though the memories that came with the mug no longer tugged at my heart, letting go of it still felt like a big goodbye.

But life changes constantly, sometimes in big ways, sometimes infinitesimally. If we’re lucky, we get to evolve. We get to build on past experiences and facets instead of clinging to them as if they’ll fade away the second we stop reminding ourselves that they once existed.

One day last summer, my daughter and her wife gave me a gift basket. Among the wonderful and thoughtful items in it was a mug.

It took only one look.

My original mug is still here, hanging on the kitchen mug tree should I ever feel like using it. I rarely do.

The memories are lovely, but it’s time to move on.