Question: "Describe a moment when you felt completely at peace. Where were you, and what made that moment so serene?"

It was the last day of school in 1995, and I sat alone in my empty classroom after the children had gone. The June afternoon light slanted through windows covered in student artwork - butterflies they'd painted for spring. I could hear the custodian's radio playing softly down the hall, some Motown song about love. The desks were cleaned out, but I could still see each child who'd sat there - Roberto with his stubborn cowlick, Jennifer who wrote everything in purple pen. I realized I'd taught over 600 children by then, and could remember something special about each one. The peace came from knowing I was exactly where I was meant to be, doing exactly what I was born to do. That empty classroom felt fuller than any other room in my life.

Question: "Describe a moment of pure joy from your life. What exactly do you see? Who's there? What makes it perfect?"

Christmas morning, 2010. The bakery is closed, and for once, I'm not there. Instead, I'm in our apartment above the shop, and the entire family has gathered - Marguerite, our three children, seven grandchildren, even my ancient mother, 92 and still criticizing my croissants. The table is covered with my bread, shaped into stars and angels for the children. Steam rises from the coffee, fogging the windows that look out onto Rue de la République, where snow is falling, muffling the city sounds. My grandson Pierre, five years old, stands on the same wooden stool I once used in Papa's bakery, his small hands deep in dough I'm teaching him to shape. Marguerite starts singing an old Lyon Christmas carol, and everyone joins in, even the teenagers. The room smells of butter, cinnamon, and coffee. I realize that everything I've worked for - every 3 AM morning, every burned finger, every perfect baguette - has led to this moment, this table, these voices singing in my warm kitchen while snow falls on Lyon.

Question: "What moment would you most want your loved ones to know about - something that shows who you really are?"

November 9, 1989. The Wall is falling, and I'm standing at Checkpoint Charlie with my illegal copy of Western programming manuals hidden under my coat. For years, I'd been secretly studying them, teaching myself languages our government said we didn't need. People around me are crying, embracing strangers, but I stand frozen, manuals pressed against my chest, realizing that tomorrow I can walk into West Berlin and apply for any technology job I want. A elderly man next to me is sobbing into his hands. I put my arm around him - me, who never touches strangers - and we stand there, two Berliners understanding that everything we knew is ending and beginning simultaneously. Those manuals under my coat weren't just books; they were my prayer for a future I'd barely dared imagine. That moment captures who I am: the girl who prepared for freedom before it arrived, who learned in secret, who comforted a stranger while clutching contraband knowledge. When my students ask why I push them so hard, I tell them: "Because walls fall suddenly. Be ready."