The Art of Becoming Who You Are
I don’t know who I’ll be next week or next month or in five years. But I can’t wait to meet her.
This post was originally published on my blog sometime in 2017 when I was 23 years old, which feels like a lifetime ago, but the revelations remain true still.
I’ve quite recently come the the conclusion that I have no idea who I am. I thought – perhaps naively – that at 23, I was nearly done figuring out who I was, that I would have some sort of idea by now, but I’m no nearer to understanding myself now than I was at 5, or 10, or 15.
I thought graduating college and starting my first full-time, big girl job would provide some clarity, some insight. I thought I knew who I was becoming. But I find myself more confused than ever.
Isn’t adulthood meant to be a culmination of the discoveries of your youth? Shouldn’t I know who I’m supposed to be by now?
But truthfully, I shouldn’t be surprised. I have already been so many different people in my short life.
I have been shaping and tearing down and rebuilding myself as long as I can remember, scrapping the parts I don't love, sloughing them off like dead skin, borrowing traits from others like cups of sugar.
Maybe I'll be constantly searching for the girl I want to be. Maybe the uncharted territory beneath our skin is what makes us who we are, not the absence of it.
But how do you find yourself if you don’t know who you are?
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