Who are you, really?

Are you shaped by your friends? Reflected, sculpted, and edited by those around you?

Each group of people brings a different energy. A different version of you takes shape within each dynamic. Different spaces, different roles. And somewhere in there, the real you.

But who is that?

After some gatherings, you walk home feeling fractured, questioned, half-seen. You hear stories told about you that feel unfamiliar. Slightly off. Versions of you that don’t quite match your sense of self.

But still, it’s you. Isn’t it? Different aspects of you surface depending on who you’re with.

It’s hard for me to understand sharp comments, jokes that touch on personal traits or dig at someone’s soft spots. And yet, maybe they come with love?

You’re told to remember who you are. But what if you’re no longer sure?

There was a time when you knew. Or thought you did. You could describe yourself clearly, precisely. Until one day, you did something you never thought you would. Something you considered shameful. Something out of character.

And suddenly, the clarity cracked.

Maybe you acted in a way you once judged in others. It’s hard to escape your own flaws. At some point, someone will hold them up to your face like a mirror.

And maybe all you can do then is lower your guard and admit it:

Yes. This is me, too.
I’m trying.
But I can’t constantly fight, hide, or perform.

I thought that by this age I’d know who I am. I thought I’d know what I want. Then again, I’ve imagined many things that should’ve become clear by now.

But it didn’t go that way.

For much of my life, I’ve felt too old for things that truly excite me.
Have I always been too old?
Born old, and only growing older?

And yet, at the same time, still needing, still naive,
still, in so many ways, young.

Both truths living side by side.

No wonder it gets dizzying sometimes.