The Long And Winding Road Of Becoming Yourself

Illustration by Baran Forootan

For as long as I can remember, I’ve carried a quiet question inside me: 

Who am I, really? 

It's never been loud - but rather just a soft hum beneath everything I did. As a child, I asked it in wonder, thinking about who I will be in 10 years. As a teenager, I asked it in frustration, never sure if who I was, was truly genuine. Now as barely an adult, I ask it in silence - still searching, still unsure. 

I admire people who wore their identies like a second skin - their playlists curated, their wardrobes unmistakably theirs. I, on the other hand, feel like a collage of borrowed things. Trying on versions of myself like outfits in a fitting room praying that one version might finally fit. 

The exhaustion of trying to belong 

Thinking back, I think I understand why I felt so lost. I wanted to be like everybody else. I wanted to listen to whatever music my friends listened to. I wanted to wear whatever the pretty girls who got boys' attention were wearing. I wanted to do cool things that can impress people. I never thought to myself  “What do I truly enjoy?” but rather, “What would they want me to say?”

There is something so completely exhausting about constantly shape-shifting for the sake of belonging.. You become fluent in other people’s preferences, like an actor who’s learned every script but can't remember her own voice. You get good at the performance, but the performance never ends. 

We mould ourselves for others because deep down, we crave love. We want to be seen, adored, chosen. It’s an innately human instinct. But sometimes along the way, in the act of asking for love from the world, it feels easier to carve off pieces of who we are. We offer up a fragmented version of ourselves, hoping someone will say, “This is good enough”. 

Somewhere along the way, you realize you have become a mosaic of other people’s ideas, and yet it is not enough. 

The paradox of choices

Identity is the  accumulation of our choices. We  exist in a world of infinite paths, endless possibilities. We could become anything - but choosing one life inevitably means mourning the countless others we didn’t. It is like the fig tree analogy, from Sylvia Plath's novel, The Bell Jar, representing the overwhelming nature of life choices and the paralysis of indecision. Yet still, we stand at the base of the fig tree, as Sylvia Plath once wrote, staring at all the fruit dangling above us—each one a different life, each one calling. And as we hesitate, as we strain to choose, the figs begin to wrinkle and fall, until the hunger for certainty leaves us with nothing at all.

When everything feels possible, certainty becomes elusive. I’ve often wondered whether I’m walking the “right” path, or if an alternate version of me - one who chose differently - is out there living a life that feels fuller, brighter. 

Choice, in theory, is freedom. In practice, it can feel like standing at a train station where every train is leaving at once. Each destination is enticing, yet the longer you hesitate on the platform, the more the departures blur together until you’re paralyzed, watching opportunities vanish into the distance 

But maybe the goal isn’t to uncover the perfect life. Maybe the beauty lies in choosing a single life - your life - and walking it with intention. Once you do, even the smallest step begins to carry meaning. Not because it was flawless, but because it was undeniably yours. 

The (dis)comfort of not knowing

I would be lying if I claimed to have all the answers now. And I won't pretend that it isn't excruciating. The thought of always having to“figure it out”. 

But maybe there is a subtle grace in this uncertainty. Maybe not knowing is a liberation that allows us to rebuild without obligation, to become without inherited expectations. The self is never truly gone; it only waits for the chance to be rewritten. 

There is comfort hidden in discomfort. Every fragment you shed while trying to fit into someone else’s  mold has left behind an opening - wide, uncharted space within you where beauty can take root. This is the time, you are the one who chooses  which words will define you.

The slow burn of becoming

We spend so much of life chasing a polished version of ourselves - believing that one day we will arrive somewhere that feels exact, a purpose that locks neatly into place, a life that suddenly makes sense. But the self was never meant to be a finished statue. It’s more like something that is restless, reshaping, quietly carving new routes within time. 

The harder we search for who we are, the further it slips away - like trying to hold mist between your fingers. Maybe the answer isn’t the hunt at all. Maybe it begins when we turn inward, shaping ourselves in fragments; sentence by sentence, choice by choice. Not in service to the world’s expectations, but in alignment with the truth that surfaces when no one else is watching. 

The self is not a fixed point; it's a draft in motion, a fire that builds slowly, a gentle unfolding. 

And maybe that's what makes it special; 

There will never be a final version of you - only endless figs waiting to be picked and eaten.