Member-only story
the slow burn of becoming yourself
the river does not stop to ask what it is; it just flows.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve carried a quiet question inside me:
Who am I, really?
It was never loud — just a soft hum beneath everything I did. As a child, I asked it in wonder. As a teenager, I asked it in frustration. And now, as an adult, I ask it in silence — still searching, still unsure.
I admired people who wore their identities like a second skin — their playlists curated, their drink orders memorised, their wardrobes unmistakably theirs. I, on the other hand, was a collage of borrowed things. Trying on versions of myself like outfits in a fitting room, hoping one might finally fit.
I read that people with a strong sense of identity will be better-equipped to face life with confidence and certainty. Maybe that’s why life has always felt like an unwinnable game to me. I keep pressing “start,” hoping the next round will bring clarity. But some days, I just want to log out.
the exhaustion of trying to belong.
