OBSERVATION 02
I don't remember the first thing I wore.
But I wonder if I remember
the first version of myself
that wasn't entirely mine.
It probably didn't happen all at once.
No one hands you a costume
and tells you to wear it forever.
It arrives in smaller ways.
A compliment.
A correction.
A look across the room.
Someone laughs
and suddenly you decide
never to do that again.
Someone approves
and a new version of you quietly stays.
The strange thing about growing up
is that we rarely notice
which parts we chose
and which parts were chosen for us.
We become fluent
in expectations
long before we become fluent
in ourselves.
Some people are told
to be quieter.
Others,
to be stronger.
Kinder.
Smaller.
Less emotional.
More successful.
More beautiful.
More certain.
The instructions are different.
The result often isn't.
Eventually,
the performance becomes effortless.
Not because it feels true.
Because repetition
has a way of disguising itself
as identity.
Maybe that's why
letting go feels so frightening.
Not because we're losing ourselves.
Because we're losing
a version of ourselves
that once kept us safe.
There is nothing wrong
with the people
we had to become.
Some protected us.
Some opened doors.
Some softened the impact
of a world
that expected certainty
before curiosity.
But every now and then,
a quiet question appears.
Not all at once.
Just enough to interrupt the noise.
If no one had told me who to be...
Who might I have become?
Maybe becoming
isn't about adding more.
Maybe it's about noticing
which layers
were never yours
to begin with.