i am you, from another time

I am you, from another time, if you experienced all that I had; everything and everyone I have come to know.

Will you recognize yourself when you see me?

In 2022, I started a daily practice of logging my thoughts. Every morning, I wrote down three things I was grateful for. At night, I recorded three moments of happiness I experienced during the day. It was simple yet profound. What surprised me most were the variations—no two days were alike.

Mornings were often influenced by my groggy state, and the entries reflected that. Gratitude for sleep, the soft glow of morning light spilling through the curtains, and the rich aroma of espresso dominated my lists. These were small things, yet they felt monumental when observed with intention.

Evenings, however, painted a more complex picture. Some nights, my reflections poured onto the page in long, detailed paragraphs, capturing the fleeting joys of the day. A smile from a stranger, the way sunlight danced on the pavement, or a moment of laughter shared with a friend. Other nights, frustration overshadowed my reflections. “Did anything make me happy today?” I’d ask, my pen hovering over the blank page. It felt like a chore, an obligation I resented on particularly hard days. Yet even then, I persisted, knowing that this ritual was less about perfection and more about connection—with myself.

Looking back, that daily exercise was a way of fully immersing myself in who I was at that moment in time. Each entry served as a timestamp, a snapshot of my evolving self. It became a mirror, showing me not just who I was but also who I could be. It preserved the essence of all things Anna.

These days, I find myself pondering my identity even more consciously. It’s a peculiar thing to exist in this state of staticity, where I am both evolving and staying the same. I’m not the person I was yesterday. I’m not the person I was a year ago. I’m not even the same person I was a minute ago. Every moment of my existence reshapes me, even in imperceptible ways.

When I think back to the person I was twenty-three years ago, I see someone untouched by the weight of experience. A blank slate, fresh and new, untainted by the joys, heartbreaks, and growth that would eventually shape me. That version of me could never have imagined the person I’ve become today, just as today’s version of me cannot fully grasp who I will be in the future.

There’s a strange beauty in this fluidity, in the way we are constantly becoming. Life’s experiences—both the profound and the mundane—layer upon each other, creating a mosaic that is uniquely our own. And yet, it’s easy to lose sight of this in the day-to-day hustle, in the monotony of routine. That’s why my 2022 experiment was so valuable. It reminded me to pause, to look inward, and to appreciate the intricate details of my life.

Now, when I revisit those old logs, I see more than just a record of gratitude and happiness. I see a story. A story of someone navigating the complexities of life, someone trying to make sense of their place in the world. I see growth, resilience, and an unyielding curiosity about what it means to be human.

And so, I pose the question again: Will you recognize me when you see me? Perhaps the better question is, will I recognize myself? The answer lies in the act of reflection. By looking back, I can better understand the threads that connect who I was, who I am, and who I’m becoming. It’s not about finding definitive answers but about embracing the journey.

If I’ve learned anything from this practice, it’s that self-recognition is not a fixed point. It’s a process, an ever-shifting dance between the past, present, and future. Some days, the reflection feels crystal clear; on others, it’s a blur. But in either case, there’s value in the attempt—in taking the time to truly see yourself.

So, if you’re reading this, I invite you to pause and consider: Who are you today? Who were you yesterday? And who might you become tomorrow? The answers may not come easily, but the questions themselves are worth exploring. After all, they’re the threads that weave the tapestry of your existence.

Will you recognize yourself when you see me? Perhaps not entirely. But that’s okay. Because recognition is not the goal. The goal is to keep looking, to keep asking, to keep becoming.