Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler

or perhaps I should say:
laissez le désastre nous découvrir

If opportunity for discovery exists in crisis, than I am well involved in a journey to a new world. I have anger for all the time I have spent in being such a perfect chaemeleon in the world. However, that was who I was, and perhaps for a long time it was necessary, and even right. However, once one begins to speak in their own voice, the chameleon loses her camouflage. And all the others are now forced to interact with the true color of her skin.

The problem is the chameleon doesn't know how to be - if she can be any color or pattern in the world, which one IS she? If the particular spot in the forest of existence is no longer the determinant of the pattern of spots she adopts, what is? And how does one cope with being conspicuous?