In Margaret Atwood’s The Robber Bride, she writes, “You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”
I was introduced to this concept of the “male gaze” when I was fourteen and suddenly became aware of my complicated relationship to my personality. I began to question everything about myself—how I dressed, how I spoke, how I laughed, even how I sneezed. Everything I did felt shaped by the anticipation of how my male classmates would respond, all attempts to avoid their ruthlessness.
I spent the rest of my teenage years battling the instinct to shrink and shapeshift for men and for approval. Just when I thought I had finally emerged from that exhausting, contorting self-consciousness, I moved away to college. Now, I am a woman with each of my peers and future employers inside watching a woman. I am still my own voyeur.
Recently, everything I do feels performative. A night out with friends quickly becomes, in my mind, an aspirational Instagram story—meticulously curated for the envy of whoever might be watching from home. My hobbies morph into résumé bullet points, tools I use to prove that I deserve to be here. I read, write, make playlists, and daydream about what each action adds to my reputation and my LinkedIn. I think about everything in terms of building an aesthetic, propelled by an imagined competition in my head. A contest to be just as cool, genius, sexy, accomplished, and charismatic as I perceive everyone around me to be. It’s humiliating and near impossible to give up.
This disconnection from my true self is familiar. I know what it feels like to search for “me” and uncover only layers upon layers of insecurity. I’ve heard every saying about being “yourself.” I’ve been warned that comparison is the thief of joy, reminded to “live in the moment,” and encouraged to “run my own race” more times than I can count. In my opinion, these tokens of advice are useless. Whoever coined those phrases had a knack for poetry but seems to have forgotten what it actually feels like to be in your twenties.
That being said, these are my tried-and-true tips for when life, hustle, and constant comparison leave you asking: Who am I, really?
- University Counseling Services
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I’m going to hold your hand when I say this. Sometimes it takes a professional. I am therapy’s biggest advocate. It isn’t always easy, but some feelings don’t fade without help, and that’s okay. There is no better time than now, as a college student, to seek support. You’re already paying for it in your tuition. You’re in the middle of a major life transition. You might as well try it. I have. It’s great.
- Put that Phone Down
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I hate when people tell me to take a break from my phone. I hate that they’re usually right even more. It’s easier to tap into yourself when you aren’t being bombarded by ads, highlight reels, trends, texts demanding your energy, endless emails, and those Canvas notifications you’ve been dreading. Set a timer. Put it away. Do something else or do nothing at all. Notice how you start to feel a little bit lighter, a little more like yourself.
- Spend Time Alone
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The social demands of university can be overwhelming and tiresome. How can you feel like yourself if you’re drained? Take a day to enjoy your own company. What do you actually like to do? Work out, bake, journal, sit outside, play Wordle, rewatch a show for the hundredth time, take an extra-long shower. And remind yourself that you’re doing it for you—not for an audience, not for applause.
- Make a List of What You Love, and What You Hate
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This is an exercise a therapist once gave me, and I return to it whenever I feel lost. I may not know what my future holds or whether I measure up, but I do know that I love cheese, unicorns, music, and my family. Oddly, there’s comfort in naming and acknowledging the smallest things that make me who I am. They remind me that beneath all the striving and self-surveillance, there is a real person who doesn’t need to perform.
If these are tips you’ve heard before, it’s probably because they really work. I can attest to it. “Being yourself” isn’t about finally becoming the perfect, polished version of you; it’s about gently returning to who has been there all along.