There are days I treat myself like a second thought. I push through my exhaustion like it’s proof of my strength. I dismiss my needs with a light joke. I scroll until my eyes sting, then doubt myself through my FOMO. I fear my own body, prefer anxiety over joy, dread responding to texts, and call it “self-control” or “being chill” when really I am trying to escape myself.
Somewhere along the way, I learned how to show up for other people. To check in, remember birthdays, send “let me know if you need anything” texts and mean it. I genuinely care – just not always for myself.
But here’s what I’m learning (slowly and awkwardly):
It’s not enough to just be someone.
You have to be someone you care about.
Not in a trivial, “treat yourself” kind of way (although that can be valuable too). But in a real, reliable, honest way. The way you would care for a friend who is quietly unraveling. The way you would talk to someone you actually like.
Ask yourself how you’re really doing, and actually wait for the answer.
Ask, but don’t interrogate.
You don’t have to be your best self all the time. But you should be your softest witness. And your most cherished place to land.
So today, I am practicing.
Caring for me like I would someone I love.
And trying to become someone I don’t regularly abandon.
There’s a version of me that I hoped I’d be by now.
She’s achieved so much. She’s successful. She doesn’t just know what she wants – she asks for it clearly, confidently, and without apologizing. She walks into rooms like she belongs there because she knows that she does. She explains her emotions without ending each sentence in a question mark. She doesn’t Google “how to stop crying” at 12am.
But I’m not quite her yet.
Instead, I’m somewhere in between. A little nervous, a little burnt out. I’ve outgrown acting like I am okay with things when I’m really not. But I still haven’t become a pro when it comes to fully trusting myself and honoring my boundaries. I am learning to be softer without being smaller, learning to want things out loud. But some days, I don’t even know what I want. Only what I don’t want.
So I am asking:
How did you learn to have some more faith in yourself?
How did you accept the real version of you over something you were performing? What helped you loosen up?
I don’t need some ten-step plan. Honestly, I’d prefer an easy fix. Just some simple thoughts. The kind you share over lunch with your friends, chatting like time doesn’t matter.
I used to think “being myself” meant being the most likeable version of me.
The girl who recognized the right references. Who said the right things at the right time. Who could adapt her vibe depending on who was in the room. She wasn’t fake necessarily, just tailored and practiced. Curated. Processed, like an Instagram post that only needed one little fix.
But somewhere along the way, the performance became exhausting.
Trying to be chill when I am spiraling. Acting unfazed when I care way too much. Grinning and acting fine when I am actually crumbling inside. And I began to wonder: If I am not even allowing me to be me…who is all this for?
It is easy to say “be yourself.” It is tough to actually do it. Because what if people don’t like the real you? What if the real you is too much? Or not enough? Or too eccentric, or nutty, or loud, or boring, or soft in places you were told to be hard?
But here is the thing I am gently learning: being someone else does not protect you from rejection. It just assures you’ll feel alone even when you’re accepted.
The right people will never ask you to shrink. They won’t flinch when you get real. They won’t back away from your softness. They will take you in. They’ll reflect it back.
Being yourself isn’t about being impeccable. It is about showing up, blemished and all. It is about reclaiming whole parts of you that you used to hide because someone once made you feel like they were bizarre.
And maybe it’s not even about becoming anyone new.
Maybe it is about fully remembering who you were before society told you who to be.
Because everyone else is already taken. And honestly? You are already incredible as you are.
There’s a version of me I spent years trying to grow into.
She was always a little more polished. A little more free. A little more “cool girl in the corner” than I ever was.
She didn’t cry watching SPCA commercials.
She didn’t double text.
She knew how to carve her eyebrows and always said “thank you” instead of “sorry.”
She was every Pinterest mood board I’ve ever saved, all vanilla girl aesthetic and emotional modesty.
But she wasn’t me.
I think we all do this. We frame ourselves out of what we think will be loved. We stitch ourselves together with bits of admiration from strangers, Vogue covers, characters in movies who never seem to need anyone. We go over our personalities like scripts. We examine our softness so we can be more palatable. More preferential.
And then one day, you look up and realize:
You don’t even like the girl you became.
…
I have learned that becoming isn’t always progress. Sometimes it’s performance. Sometimes it’s angst, disguised as glow serum and curated playlists.
And while reinvention can be healing, becoming the false version of you – the one built from pressure, not authenticity – is utterly exhausting. You will spend all your energy trying to maintain a self that was never viable in the first place.
So now, I’m doing this instead:
Becoming the version of me that cries when something upsets her. Who is clingy sometimes and calm sometimes and genuine all the time. Who absolutely needs people. Who completely forgives herself. Who has roots, not just polish.
The realest version of me may not be the most admired, but she is the one I can absolutely live with.
I like to believe that there is a kind of quiet that comes with finding the right person. That something inside of you eases. Not because you have changed, but because you finally feel safe enough not to.
There is no guard up. No calculated charm, no pretending to be chill, more desirable, more put together than you actually are. Like your nervous system finally soothes. Like you are no longer auditioning for love like it’s some kind of role. Things are stable, and you’re just living in it. There is no need to rehearse your reactions, no compulsion to overanalyze texts like they are part of some sacred manuscript. You just are. And somehow, that is enough. Because the right one will just listen. Not just to your words, but to the silences that fall between them.
I used to be preoccupied with this idea that I needed to find the “right one” and have it feel like some firework display. Something colossal and cinematic. I thought of a soundtrack playing in the background, a perfect line delivered under perfect lighting (probably delivered by Hugh Grant, if we’re being honest). But real love is generally quieter than that. It is largely found in the way someone remembers how you take your coffee. In the hand that finds yours without hesitation. In the way they see the version of you that even you are still learning to love.
The right one doesn’t anchor you. They don’t complete you. They don’t free you from yourself. But they see you. They compliment you. They hold space for the chaos and the calm. And they love you in that space. They get that growth isn’t always pretty, that you can be a super fun masterpiece and a work-in-progress at the same time.
I imagine it feels like a little rest. Like the right one makes you feel new again. Not in an unusual way, but in the sense that you are finally safe enough to play. To be comfortable. To be easy-going. To be held, to be known without having to clarify every piece of yourself.
And no, I haven’t found it yet. I don’t know if soulmates exist. And I don’t yet know what it feels like when someone makes your life feel less like a performance and more like a place to rest.
But I am hoping that this is real, and that maybe it is out there for me.
I want to believe that the kind of love that makes you feel radiant is not just for other people. That one day, someone will love me in a way that doesn’t feel like a risk. Like something that was everlastingly meant to happen in time.
And until then, I will keep choosing myself hopefully.
Because if I do meet the right one, he won’t complete me. He will just know that I was whole all along.
There’s a version of me. Quiet. Unguarded. Entirely unprepared. I imagine her quite literally stumbling into the love of her life the way you trip over a crack in the sidewalk: clumsily but not hard enough to actually get hurt.
Not the The Bachelor kind of love. Not the kind I have rehearsed in my head, with Instagram-filtered kisses and totally blush-worthy glances. I mean the kind that absolutely rearranges you. The one that truly peels you back layer by layer and doesn’t flinch at what it finds.
And that is what genuinely scares me.
For as easy going as I claim to be, I also like to be in control. Especially when it comes to things I am afraid of. I like certainty and knowing how I will come across. I like knowing what I will say and what version of me I am promoting. I have spent so much time developing myself as that girl: the pop-culturally aware one, the creative one, the vulnerable one. So I am afraid that falling in love will wreck her.
Because real love doesn’t always flatter you. Sometimes it exposes you. It reminds you of your oldest fears. It shows you how quickly your walls can crumble when someone finds the crack in your foundation. Sometimes it betrays you. I am afraid that falling in love will hurt.
And I don’t know if I am ready for that.
Not in the dramatic, movie-ending kind of way. In a silent way. A slow unraveling. The moments when you’re unsure he means what he says. Unsure if there is an ulterior motive. The waiting for words or acts that never come. The wishing he would give you flowers just one time, and giving him your body anyway.
I worry that I will lose myself. That I will love someone so much that I will start dimming my sparkle to make sure he glows too. I worry that I will get too soft in ways that will make me forget how I fought to become this version of myself.
But here is the thing: maybe love does not have to crush you. Maybe it just asks you to ease up your grip.
To let someone see the version of you that isn’t all figured out yet. To let them join you on your journey.
Maybe falling in love won’t be the end of me. Maybe it will be the beginning of something that I can’t control, but desperately need.
There was a time when I believed self-love meant writing affirmations on a mirror or reciting mantras until they rang true. And while there may be some benefit to this, I’ve learned that loving yourself isn’t always some glowing montage with soft lighting and background music. Sometimes, it’s learning to sit with the weird, the heavy, the cringe, the complicated parts of yourself, and not awkwardly flinch.
Loving what makes you you is not always graceful. Sometimes it’s a very inelegant laugh. It’s realizing you overthink texts for too long but send them anyway. It is wearing that outfit that makes you feel powerful, even if no one else “gets” it. It is embracing your obsession with reality TV, your niche hyperfixations, your delicate middle and sharp edges.
It’s easy to want to flatten yourself into someone less complicated, more polished. Social media easily influences us to manage ourselves as a perfectly curated brand. To pick a single aesthetic and stay with it. But you contain multitudes. You can be someone who cries over that one strand of Zayn’s hair at the 2014 AMAs and still love classic poetry. You can be the kind of person who appreciates a color coded planner by day and a rerun of Gypsy Sisters by night.
You are allowed to recognize yourself in all of it.
The truth is, the things we regularly try to downplay or hide — our quirks, our past lapses in judgement, our passions that don’t always make sense to others — are the exact things that make us remarkable. They are what make us rare. And being rare, unique, is so much better than being perfect.
So here is your gentle reminder: You do not need to diminish your quirks to be loved. You do not need to reduce your edges to be accepted. You are not too much or not enough. You are exactly the right amount of you.
There’s a definitive kind of peace in turning your brain off and watching someone else’s life absolutely spiral into chaos.
That is what I used to think reality TV was: background noise. Distraction. Scripted entertainment for the sake of it. A satire of actual reality where eyelashes were long, tempers were short, and everyone broke down in confessionals under suspiciously good lighting.
But lately, I’ve started to realize just how deeply it’s shaped me. Not just in the way I quote Snooki and JWoww when I’m trying to be funny, but in the way I have begun to understand performance, character, and the messy act of self-discovery. That is how I realized reality TV didn’t just captivate me. It formed me.
Not in the “I need to get Juviderm and fake cry on cue” kind of way (although Botched has certainly taught me what not to do to my face). But in the silent, hushed way that TV tends to slip into your brain. Reality TV trained me in reinventing yourself mid-season. It taught me that a storyline can change with the proper editing… or the proper outfit. That you can be both deeply flawed and deeply adored.
It made me curious about the line between who we are and who we perform as. Whether we’re curating our Instagram feeds or narrating our own lives in a voiceover, like we’re on Love Island, we have all developed into producers of our own reality.
And maybe that approach isn’t a bad thing. I used to watch for the drama. But now, I watch for the humanity.
Reality TV, in its basic, primitive glory, taught me that identity is fluid. That people will negate themselves, get canceled, repair themselves, come back stronger, and still make the same mistakes all over again. And I see myself in that part.
We all have our own deleted scenes and best moments. Our “I’m not proud of this but it made me who I am” moments.
Reality TV didn’t make me shallow – it made me observant. Reflective. Intrigued by how people choose to be seen – and how editing (literal and metaphorical) shapes the story.
Because at the end of the day, I don’t just love the show. I love the humanity in the mess. If there is anything I have learned from watching strangers fall in love on the third episode or cry over a poorly executed charcuterie board, it is this: We are all just trying to be seen.
To be appreciated.
To find the confessionals where we can say, “This is who I am, and here is why that matters.”
There was a time when I thought “knowing yourself” was a destination.
Like one day I would wake up, glance in the mirror, and just get it. All versions of me: the confident one, the quiet one, the one who overthinks everything for a little too long – would perfectly align with constellations, and form an impeccable picture. One immaculate version: neat, elegant, chic.
But it turns out, getting to know yourself is not an arrival or a trend – it is a practice. A chaotic, beautiful, and occasionally uncomfortable unfolding. And no one really teaches us how to do it. We know how to organize a resume, how to formulate an Instagram theme, how to answer “tell me about yourself” with a sleek list of interests and humble brags. But to truly comprehend what makes us us takes more than a personality quiz or an aesthetically pleasing Pinterest board.
It takes sitting in silence with the questions that don’t have easy answers.
The Version Without the Filters
When you uncover the identities you perform – the teacher, the daughter, the “cool girl” on social media – what’s left?
Are you still you when no one is paying attention? When you’re not trying to be productive or ideal or impressive?
Getting to know yourself means meeting the parts of you that aren’t always presentable. The ones that feel too delicate, too unpolished, too much. And then deciding they are worth knowing, too.
Pop Culture as a Mirror
In a culture that rewards aesthetic over quality, getting to know yourself can feel like a rebellion. It means saying “no” to what looks pretty on paper if it doesn’t feel good in your soul. It means unlearning the need to be likable. It means not having to be a reflector of “Instagram face.” It means being okay with not always having an “identity” to brand.
Some days, the most authentic version of me is the one in her pajamas at 3pm, writing personal essays that no one reads in her bedroom. Other days, she’s in red lipstick sharing big opinions about politics. Both are valid. Both are me.
Here’s What I Know (So Far)
Getting to know yourself does not mean locking yourself into one definition. It means gathering little truths – the way you light up after a good conversation, the oddly specific way you need your coffee in the morning, the muted ache you feel when the summer sunset reminds you of swimming at your aunt’s house as a kid.
So, no. I have not “figured myself out” yet. But I am beginning to delight in listening more closely. And I believe that this is where it begins.
I spent four years studying everything except how to live.
College taught me how to write a 10-page paper on why we should talk about Fight Club. How to navigate group projects with people who never showed up. How to pull off an all-nighter and still manage to make it to my three hour, 8am class with a coffee and full face of makeup.
But here is what I didn’t learn:
I didn’t learn that friendships take effort, and that sometimes, no matter how much effort you put in, people still drift.
I didn’t learn how to recover from the sting of mean girls.
I didn’t learn what a normal relationship actually looks like.
Or how to stop blushing over a boy who only texts after 9pm.
Or that a “pink” flag is still a shade of red.
I didn’t learn how to say “no” without apologizing or explaining myself.
I didn’t learn how to slow down when every part of me was prepared to sprint.
I didn’t learn how to drink without feeling guilt or to say “I’m done” without sounding boring.
I didn’t learn how to have fun at a party while also being myself.
Here’s the truth: college is fun. Most of my favorite memories are of campus events, dancing at the bar, late night drives to Wawa, and various inside jokes that still make me giggle.
College gave me structure: a campus map, a plan, a GPA to aim for. It gave me ambition and grades to measure my success. It gave me deadlines to meet. It gave me a sense of direction. It made me aspire to be someone. It transformed me into someone new. At the time, that felt like everything I needed.
But it didn’t teach me how to go easy on myself because most parts of life come without a syllabus.
There was no class on how to be confident after being criticized by sorority girls.
There are no office hours for your quarter-life crisis.
There is no participation grade for showing up to work.
You don’t get extra credit for learning how to be gentle with yourself.
The most valuable lessons I learned happened outside of the classroom. They happened in the hours where I had to figure it out alone – in my messy dorm next to the windowsill where my roommate left an accumulation of half-drank iced coffees and in the hidden booth in the library where I finally let myself cry. Those are the lessons that stick.
I am not saying that college was a waste. It transformed me. It gave me a voice. It filled my bookshelf and my brain and my camera roll. It did not teach me how to be okay when life isn’t perfectly curated or mapped out. That came after graduation. It is still coming to me, in waves. So I will tell you this now, and I will say it like your big sister would:
You do not need to have it all figured out.
You are going to outgrow people, and that is perfectly okay.
You can be brilliant but still foolish enough to get your heart broken.
You can mess things up and still be deserving of good things.
Whatever happens, you are going to be okay – even if it doesn’t feel that way at the moment.
And when you are not sure of who you are, start with who you don’t want to be.
Hey Kaleigh! 