When I look in the mirror each morning, I do not merely see my reflection. Rather, I see a collection of people observing me: chapters of my life, from four years old to twenty. One critiques my outfit, one notices a wavy strand of hair my straightener missed, and one simply ignores my appearance all together. Each person has a certain standard to uphold, and each stage of my life has ensured I excel in meeting my own.Â
I once held the belief that growth was additive. As you mature, you continuously build on the person you once were; interests, values, and relationships accrue. Every self-help book and rom-com movie would convey it as a process of awakening and cultivating your image, but experience has taught me differently: evolution is amputation; a tourniquet, cutting oxygen flow and subsequent deterioration. Expectations of perfection require the removal of anything misaligned. There were explicit ranges for acceptable behaviour: don’t be too soft and don’t be too loud, be knowledgeable but don’t be arrogant, etc. My identity was meticulously devised and assembled: polished yet utterly unrecognizable.Â
While I’ve succeeded in reaching expectations set by my family and social setting, I often find myself mourning the versions of who I was. My earliest memories are marked by smiling at strangers, packing extra food for people in my kindergarten class, and running tutoring sessions for anyone that might have needed help. I remember there being one assignment in elementary school that asked us to write letters to someone we admired. In our class, there was a student who had undergone major surgery and was unable to walk afterwards. I did not know him well, but I wrote my letter to him. Regardless of not knowing him well, I admired his strength, and I wrote of my respect for his resilience at such a young age. There was a vulnerability that amplified warmth and imbued kindness into every interaction, but my reality demanded constant internal surveillance and apprehension. Day by day, expectations stripped layers of the girl I once was. Every conversation, every action left the skin raw. She exists somewhere, if only in memory or long-forgotten habits, quiet and isolated from the world but still kind. It is difficult not to think of who she would have become, and what will become of me.Â
I am assured that developing one’s identity, however painful, is worth the discomfort and loss. It has taught me how to hold others accountable, how to find people with similarly high standards, so on and so forth. However, as I step away from the mirror and into the streets of Manhattan, I am acutely aware of the spectres of my past. Their kindness, their cynicism, and the curiosity that permeates my perception of the world. The skin may no longer be raw, but I am surrounded by bloodied gauze. I’ve had to learn how to live while grieving the ruins of my old selves by recognizing them in the world and in others. I can nurture that softness and light in others, but I know it will not return to me. They were the price I paid for constructing perfection, for becoming my own magnum opus, and I am finally learning to love the stranger I’ve become.