Years do odd things to Identity

time alters us so gradually that we rarely notice until we meet an older version of ourselves in memory

I am sitting in the park, stretched out on the grass, listening to the excited chorus of children queuing for ice cream. Last night, I met my younger self in a dream. I wonder if she recognized me. I wonder if she realized I was her. The person she thought she would become.

At my core, I am still the same. Yet somehow, I am entirely different.

She had no fear of dreaming big. I, on the other hand, have become more “realistic.” She believed in the version of adulthood sold to us on television, a neat and predictable life that doesn’t really exist. The older I get, the more I realize that life is far messier, far more beautiful, and far less certain than I imagined.

It’s not all bad. In fact, there is so much growth.

When I look at her, I don’t think about who she was. I think about everything that awaits her. The heartbreaks, the friendships, the mistakes, the victories. The lessons she doesn’t yet know she’ll need.

She walks toward all of it completely oblivious.

Identity as a Collection of Temporary Feelings

I often revisit my younger selves through my journals. I consider myself lucky to have access to these snapshots of my own psyche. I can read about a random Wednesday from five years ago and recall exactly who I was, what I feared, and what I thought mattered.

Along with this privilege comes a healthy dose of embarrassment.

I cringe at past versions of myself. I see how desperately I clung to experiences as proof of who I was. How quickly I would discover a new hobby and make it my entire personality. How I would let a bad experience become a defining character trait.

Girl, just move on!!

Looking back, I can see how tightly I held onto identities that were never meant to be permanent. Every interest had to become a label. Every emotion had to become a story.

As life progresses, those sharp edges have softened. I no longer feel the need to choose one version of myself and reject the rest. I can enjoy painting without calling myself a painter. I can write without deciding that it must define me.

Memory Changes Who We Are

Are you the person you were, or the person you remember being?

I often find myself reminiscing about certain periods of my life, convinced they were simpler, happier times. Then I reopen my journals and discover that, at the time, I felt as though I was walking through hell.

Memory is a strange thing. It fades. It distorts. It edits.

Over time, our experiences stop being events and become narratives. The stories we tell ourselves are often different than the truth itself. Someone who once considered themselves shy may later remember themselves as thoughtful. Someone who saw themselves as reckless may eventually call themselves adventurous.

The facts remain unchanged. identity doesnt

The Loss of Certainty

One of the best parts of growing older is becoming comfortable with being several people at once. There is less pressure to choose.

I simply am.

I pick up hobbies and interests as I move through life and let them go when they no longer fit. Contradictions multiply, and instead of resisting them, I welcome them.

This week my favorite ice cream might be vanilla.

Next week it might be chocolate.

And that’s okay.

The older I get, the less interested I become in defining myself through fixed categories. Life is richer when there is room to change your mind.

Perhaps maturity is not discovering who you are. Perhaps it is becoming comfortable with not knowing.

The Versions That Live Inside You

I’m sure many of you feel the same way. You’re not the same person you were ten years ago.

God, I’m not even the same person I was five minutes ago.

As I watch children playing in the sunshine, laughing with ice cream dripping down their hands, I am reminded that change begins early and never really stops. Every experience leaves a mark. Every conversation shifts something, however small.

We are constantly changing. Yet somehow, I still feel like myself.

The younger version of me who thought she loved painting more than writing still lives inside me. Every now and then she taps on the glass and asks to come out.

The girl who dreamed of city life still lives inside me too. She has simply grown fond of countryside walks and quiet mornings.

None of these versions disappeared. Millions of selves live within me, each carrying a piece of who I am today.

Error 404: Identity Not Found

Maybe years do odd things to identity because identity was never something to be found in the first place. Maybe it was always something to be uncovered, layer by layer, beneath the versions of ourselves we borrowed from everyone else.

How can I become “more myself” when that self is not fixed, not finished, and never will be?

I think of the river in front of me.

The water keeps moving. Pebbles, bends, and obstacles alter its path. Life experiences do the same to us. They shape the flow, redirect it, slow it down, speed it up.

But the river remains a river.

And it keeps flowing.

At this very moment, I am listening to The Child in Us by Enigma.

If you have a few minutes, I recommend finding a stream, sitting quietly beside it, and listening to this beautiful song.

The children are still laughing in the distance. Their ice cream is melting, their games will end, and by tomorrow they’ll be slightly different people than they are today. So will I. There is something comforting in that. We are all unfinished.