There are versions of me scattered everywhere. Not because I am pretending to be someone I am not, but because growing up teaches you to become whatever the moment needs. At school, with friends, online, each place asks for a different shape, a different tone, a different version of me that I learned to deliver without even noticing.
There is the school version: composed, careful, answering questions only when I am sure I will not get them wrong. Then there is the friend version: steady, easygoing, the one who says “I am fine” even when the truth feels heavier. And, of course, the online version, the one who looks confident enough on the surface that no one would guess how many times I rewrote the caption before posting.
None of these versions are fake. They are just edited, softened, trimmed into something easier for other people to accept.
The pressure to self-edit is common. According to Pew Research Center, “37% of teens say they feel pressure to only post content that makes them look good online.” It makes sense why so many of us slowly split ourselves into different versions without even realizing it. We learn to stay convenient, quiet, agreeable. We learn that taking up less space feels safer than being fully seen.
But somewhere in the middle of trying to be everything for everyone, I realized I did not know what my real, unedited self looked like anymore.
That realization came on an ordinary night, alone in my room, when the quiet felt too loud. I was tired of monitoring my tone, tired of controlling my expressions, tired of rehearsing conversations before I said anything out loud. I felt like a human mood ring with a heartbeat, shifting colors depending on who I was with.
So I started paying attention.
To what makes me laugh when I am not trying to look cute.
To the music I choose when no one else is in the car.
To the words I use when I stop editing every thought.
To the people who stay because they like the real version, not the convenient one.
Little by little, those versions began to merge into something more whole. Not perfect. Not fully healed. Just honest.
I am still learning how to show that version to people. Still learning that shrinking does not protect you. Still learning that being loved does not require being effortless. But every day, I let myself be a little more real, a little less filtered, a little closer to the person I buried under everyone else’s expectations.
Maybe growing up is not about creating better versions of ourselves. Maybe it is about finally choosing the version that feels true.
