LETTER 002

I Think I’m Finally Becoming Myself

There’s a strange thing about growing up. For the longest time, I thought becoming an adult meant finally figuring everything out.

You get older, you become more confident, you know what you want, you make better decisions, and somehow one day you wake up and think, Ah. There I am. I finally know who I am.

I’m starting to realize it doesn’t really happen like that. There isn’t a magical morning where everything suddenly makes sense.

Instead, it happens quietly. In the little moments you almost don’t notice.

You realize you don’t actually like something you spent years pretending to like. You stop saying yes just because you’re afraid of disappointing someone. You start choosing what makes you happy, even when nobody else completely understands it.

And somewhere along the way you look at yourself and think:

Oh. I’m becoming my own person.

For a long time, I think I was more concorned with who I was supposed to be.

The version of me that would make everyone happy. The version that made sense to other people. The version who had the right answers, made the right choices, looked like she had everything under control.

But growing up has taught me that there is a big difference between being the person everyone expects you to be and being the person you actually are.

And honestly?

The second one is much more terrifying.

Because when you stop following everyone else’s idea of who you should be, you’re left with yourself.

Your own opinions.

Your own dreams.

Your own mistakes.

Your own little weirdness.

Your own choices.

And for the first time, you have to decide what you actually want.

I’m 26 now, which still feel slightly strange to say.

Twenty-six sounds like someone who should have a five-year plan, know how taxes work, have a perfectly organized home, drink enough water, go to bed at a reasonable hour and never question what they’re doing with their life.

Meanwhile, I can spend twenty minutes deciding what to watch and then ending up rewatching the same show I’ve already seen three times.

So I guess we’re doing great.

But maybe adulthood isn’t about becoming this perfectly put-together person I imagined when I was younger. Maybe it’s about becoming comfortable with being a work in progress.

I’m learning that I don’t have to know exactly where I’m going.

I can change my mind.

I can outgrow things.

I can discover new interests.

I can want something different than I wanted a few years ago.

I can make mistakes and still trust myself to figure things out.

And maybe most importantly, I can stop feeling guilty for becoming someone my younger self couldn’t have predicted.

There are parts of me that I used to think I needed to change. Things I thought were too sensitive, too emotional, too much.

Now I’m starting to wonder if those things were ever really problems at all.

Maybe being sentimental is just another way of caring deeply.

Maybe getting attached to little things is why certain memories mean so much to me.

Maybe loving animals a ridiculous amount isn’t something I need to justify.

Maybe staying up too late thinking about life, getting excited over a new book, becoming emotionally invested in fictional characters, wanting to see new places, loving little cozy moments, dreaming about things that seem unrealistic—

Maybe those things are simply me.

And I don’t think I need to make myself smaller just because someone else wouldn’t choose the same life.

That’s one of the strangest parts of growing up. You slowly stop needing everyone to understand you.

Not because you stop caring about people.

But because you start understanding yourself enough that their approval isn’t the thing holding your identity together anymore.

I’m still figuring it out.

I still have days where I question myself. Days where I compare my life to someone else’s and wonder if I’m behind. Days where I think I should be further along by now. But then I remind myself that life isn’t a race to some imaginary finish line.

There isn’t a correct age to have everything figured out.

Maybe 26 isn’t supposed to be the age where I finally have all the answers. Maybe it’s the age where I finally start asking myself the right questions.

What do I actually want?

What makes me happy?

What kind of life feels like mine?

Who do I want to become?

And perhaps the most important one:

Who am I when I’m not trying to be who everyone else wants me to be?

I don’t have all the answers yet, but I think I’m getting closer. Not to some perfect version of myself.

Just to myself.

The real one.

The one who is still learning, still changing, still making mistakes, still getting excited over little things, still dreaming, still figuring out what comes next.

And maybe that’s what growing up really is. Not finally becoming someone. But slowly realizing that you already are someone.

You just needed the time and the courage to meet her.

I think I’m finally becoming myself.

And for the first time, I’m not in such a hurry to become anything else. ☾

— C.