I Forgot Who I Was Until I Met Myself Again

I feel like I used to be someone else, someone whom I barely recognize now.

That person was always okay with midnight work emails, and friendships that would leave her drained, and romantic relationships that would leave her hollow, and smiling. She had dreams, once, real dreams. In trade, she got orders and deadlines, checks and social approval. She had boundaries, once; now they're just chalk lines on the pavement, blurred by years of just this once and 'don't make a big deal.'

And I didn't notice the change at first. That's the thing about losing yourself; you rarely lose yourself in one moment. It is silent. It is convenient. It feels responsible. It feels like growing up.

Until it doesn't.

Until one day you realize you haven't laughed from your gut in as long as you can remember. That the volume of your own unfiltered and unperformed voice feels unfamiliar. Your smile in the mirror looks polite, but empty. You stop to wonder when the color faded from your own eyes.

I remember the exact moment I knew I had forgotten who I was. It was a Tuesday. I was in a Zoom meeting, idly nodding in response to a conversation I wasn’t listening to, giving approval I didn’t believe in, thinking of a weekend that I didn’t want to live through. It was like watching a stranger wear my skin. I had a full calendar and an empty heart. My inbox held 3,000 unread messages. I hadn't called my mother back in six days.

That night, I sank into my couch, still in my work clothes, laptop heating my thighs. I stared at the ceiling and whispered the question I hadn't dared to ask in years:

“What happened to me?”

The road back to myself was not a fairy tale montage. It was messy. Unfiltered. Sometimes boring. Often painful.

I started small. I decided to turn off my phone for one hour each night. I sat with the silence like an awkward stranger, clumsy at first but slowly becoming familiar. I started to journal again, not for the content or for the likes, but for me. The words poured out, clumsy, angry, sad, terrified. But they were honest words.

I picked up my old sketchbook, the one I shoved into a box when my life got too "serious" for doodling. I let myself be bad at drawing. I let myself feel joy in lines that didn't go as I intended. Somewhere in between smudged graphite and colored pencils, I found laughter again.

I took long walks with no destination. I listened to the birds instead of podcasts. I observed strangers with curiosity, instead of comparison. I made eye contact again.

I revisited things that made me feel alive: books with creases, songs I used to scream in my car, and a childhood recipe for sweet rice pudding that took me back home. I called my mother back.

I said "no" to things that made me feel small. I said "yes" to things that challenged my growth, even when it felt uncomfortable.

Sure, there were days when I had doubts. Days when I thought maybe the old me was gone for good. Days where I fell back into people-pleasing and perfectionism like I would my addictions – because in many ways, those were addictions.

But with time, something began to shift.

One day, I caught my reflection laughing – not out of politeness, but because something was funny. And I was startled! It was a sound I hadn't heard in literally years. So alarmingly free. Disordered. Mine.

It was the first time I realized I was meeting myself again.

Not the 19-year-old with dreams and stars in her eyes.

Not the overachieved 27-year-old who was burnt out beneath a mountain of productivity.

Someone new. Someone real.A version of me who carries the lessons and scars of every version I’ve been. A version of me who doesn’t need to perform to be worthy. A version who’s still learning, still failing, still forgiving — but finally living.

Sometimes, I still forget. Life pulls at me in all directions, demanding I trade authenticity for acceptance, joy for busyness.

But now, I remember how to find myself again.

In silence. In creativity. In truth.

In the quiet rebellion of choosing myself.

And every time I do, I greet her like an old friend:

“There you are. I missed you.”