For most of my life, I have lived as if I were following a script. I was always adhering to an invisible set of rules, some written by myself, others imposed by those around me. Every decision felt like a step along a stiff path, one that couldn’t be altered without consequence. My thoughts were malleable, but not in the way that allowed for growth; they were robotic, reactive, and dictated by external forces rather than my true desires. I grew up shy and quiet, afraid of my ideas, of my abilities, and of showing myself to the world. I molded myself into what I thought I should be, but in doing so, I never quite fit in anywhere.
And then, life happened.
Loss, heartbreak, and uncertainty shattered the fragile comfort I had clung to for so long. I watched disease take over my family members, helpless in the face of something I couldn’t control. I experienced love that left me feeling more lost than found. I struggled with the realization that I had no true concept of who I was, only fragments of identities I had patched together over the years. It forced me to look inward, and for the first time, I had to ask myself: Who am I, beyond what I have been told to be?
Piece by piece, I found the answer.
The People Who Heard Me
I stumbled into my current friendships like a lost puppy—hesitant, unsure, but desperately searching for something to hold onto. And then, before I knew it, I wasn’t just being tolerated; I was being understood. Cherished.
I had spent so long living in my head, terrified that if I let my voice slip, it would be met with indifference. That speaking up would expose me as awkward, incoherent, or unworthy of being listened to.
But then, something changed.
I started talking, even if my words felt tangled. For the first time, I could speak without the fear of sounding foolish. I could trip over my words, pause mid-sentence, lose my train of thought completely, and still be heard. My voice, which had once felt like a foreign entity to me, now had a place to exist freely. They heard me in a way I had never been heard before.
And the more I grew to know these people, the more I grew to know myself.
The Stories That Taught Me
As a South Asian girl, I never expected to find pieces of myself in East Asian media. But when nothing else felt quite right, when I felt distant from the world around me, unsure of my own identity, it was Japanese city pop, anime, and Korean dramas that helped me understand who I was.
I had spent years listening to whatever was trending, whatever my friends liked, whatever was playing in the background of someone else’s life. But then, I stumbled upon something entirely on my own: Japanese city pop.
These weren’t songs someone had recommended to me. They weren’t the biggest hits at the time. They weren’t tied to anyone else. They were mine, and for the first time, I found joy in something purely because it made me happy. That realization was bigger than I can put into words.
Then came the stories.
Anime and K-dramas became my escape, but more importantly, they became my teachers. Watching Vinland Saga was as life-changing as people describe it to be. I watched Thorfinn, the protagonist, lose himself to anger, blinded by grief and vengeance, only to go on a journey that led him somewhere unexpected: toward peace.
Thorfinn had seen horrors, endured unimaginable pain, and yet he learned to let go. He found a way to exist in the world without being consumed by the past. I didn’t just watch his journey—I felt it. It made me realize how much anger I had been holding onto. Anger at myself, at my inability to express who I was. Anger at the world, at the small, trivial things, like my hair refusing to cooperate with my hair clip. It was a tiny shift, but it changed everything. I learned to live with peace, to soften the way I viewed myself and the world, and to try a new hairstyle if nothing else worked.
Then there was Bloodhounds. Gun-woo, the main lead, became a quiet revelation. He had endured hardships before the show even introduced him to us, and he only faced more as the story progressed. Yet, no matter how much he suffered, he never soured. He remained one of the most respectful, soft-hearted characters, even as an incredible fighter. He could throw punches in the boxing ring with incredible strength, yet his demeanor never faltered.
This recognition hit me deeply. I had spent so long feeling like I needed to be tougher, sharper, less obliging. But Gun-woo showed me that softness isn’t weakness. He showed me that I could stand up for myself and fight for what I believe in without losing the kindness at my core. I didn’t have to change who I was, I just had to embrace it.
The lessons didn’t stop there.
Studio Ghibli’s dreamy worlds, the soft romances of K-dramas like 20th Century Girl—they taught me about love, but not just the kind you share with someone else. They taught me how to love myself. I had spent so much of my life chasing expectations, forcing myself onto a path that was suffocating me. But these stories showed me another way. They taught me that love should be soft, nurturing, and patient. That the kind of love I sought in a partner was also the kind of love I needed to give myself. To see myself fully, to appreciate every part of who I was.
Without realizing it, I had begun to love myself into new possibilities. New futures, unbound by expectation. New experiences, risks, and opportunities I once would have shied away from. I loved myself into being boundless.
And to think, it all started with a bunch of pixels on my screen.
The Self That Chose to Change
Change can only happen if you let it. And so, I did.
I had always been malleable, easily shaped by the world around me. But this time, I wasn’t just bending to my circumstances. I was choosing how I changed. I let life shape me differently. I sought new ways to see things, better ways. I learned to appreciate everything around me, everything that had happened for me, rather than against me.
Take something as small as winter. For as long as I can remember, I have struggled with seasonal depression. The shorter days, the cold, the seemingly endless grayness. It always left me feeling trapped. But this past winter? It was the first time I didn’t feel that weight, all because I changed one thought. Instead of dreading the early sunsets, I told myself, “Maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe, this just means I can get into bed earlier, without feeling like I’m wasting the day.” This shift, as simple as it seemed, made all the difference.
Or take the people who no longer have a space in my life. Once, I might have held resentment, or at least sadness. But now, I see them differently. I see them as teachers. Every person who has ever walked beside me, even briefly, has taught me something valuable. And how could I be angry at someone who had been my teacher? It wouldn’t be fair, and more importantly, it wouldn’t serve me.
The End That Came Too Soon
Don’t be fooled by the temporal aspect, this change wasn’t an overnight transformation. It took time. It took so much time. Nearly a year of shifting perspectives, of having long, beautiful conversations with my friends, of listening to city pop songs on repeat, of getting lost in anime and stories that rewired the way I saw the world. It took a conscious effort, a constant back-and-forth with my own thoughts, before I could finally say: I like the person I’ve become.
Everything I have experienced, every heartbreak, every change, every quiet moment of realization, has rewritten me into who I am. It took allowing myself to take risks, to step outside of my comfort zone until my comfort zone became me.
I don’t know who I will be a year from now, and for the first time in my life, that doesn’t scare me. And if you are reading this, feeling lost or stuck or unsure of yourself, I hope you take this with you:
You are not meant to fit into a single, rigid version of yourself. You are meant to grow, to shift, to find yourself over and over again in unexpected places.
Let yourself be soft. Let yourself change. Let your life rewrite you.