i couldn't help but wonder, who am i?

on a quest to find meaning

Act I

In the middle of class, my professor asked one of my classmates, “Who are you?”

“I’m a woman,” she replied. To this, he shook his head from side to side. 

“That’s not who you are. It’s a part of your identity, but that’s not who you are.” He counteracted.

We all watched the interaction in silence. Dozens of eyes looked at each other in confusion. In our defense, the class was Area Studies: Africa. We didn’t sign up to be asked philosophical questions at eight in the morning. Maybe if he had asked later in the day, she would’ve come up with a better answer. But I guess we’ll never know.

Later, he began discussing how African countries tried to establish their identity after gaining independence from European imperialist powers. The “Who are you?” question suddenly made sense. To constitute a national identity that unified the diverse population and territories, newly independent African nations had to ask themselves who they were.

In this sense, humans and nations have something in common—to build a strong identity, we need to know who we are, what our values are, and what is important to us.

The class carried on as usual. No one gave the question a second thought. No one but me. This thing would eventually become what kept me up all night in the following weeks.

Act II

Afternoon plans canceled. I tasted an afternoon free of responsibilities. A range of possibilities open up in front of me: I could finish one of the projects I've been writing, watch one of the thousands of movies on my list, bake something... or I could stay in bed for the rest of the day and think about every wrong choice I have ever taken.

The most reasonable choice was to start pondering who I was last October. All I can see is a broken, sad, distrustful, and self-indulgent version I am ashamed of. I picture her, and I can’t recognize myself. She hid in her room with her cats and her tears. Swore she would never be as stupid again. Dyed her hair back to black to represent the grief over the loss of him and her old self.

Even a year later, there are still bits of red on my dead ends. I suspect the lingering color represents something deeper. Maybe the red that won’t leave my hair equates to the sense of shame that won’t leave my side. Guilt and regret cling to me. It refuses to exit my body no matter how many sessions of therapy I go to. It keeps eating me like a worm eats a rotten apple. Except the apple is never eaten whole. The worms keep on biting; it can never get enough.

Looking back, I can’t relate anymore to the person I was a year ago. But if there was one thing she was that I wish I could still be, is optimistic. She lived for the hope of it all and had a less cynical outlook on the world. Present me is less credulous. She runs at the first sight of vulnerability. For better or for worse, we are not the same person anymore.

I think about who this present version is. Is she stronger and wiser? Is she capable of falling? I hope she is.

Act III

My therapist and I have been working on my self-esteem. First, we identified my qualities and selected the ones I liked and didn’t like. From there, we built a work plan to help me become who I want to be. But to know who I want to be, I need to know who I am right now.

Thinking back to when this tortuous wondering started. My professor asked, “Who are you?” not “What are you?.” Most of us answer the first one, thinking about how to answer the second one. But, if I look deeper, the “Who am I?” question can’t be answered with a list of demographic qualities or traits.

Part of me knows exactly who she is and who she wants to become. She has strong values, stands on business, says whatever is on her mind, and doesn’t shy away from difficulty. Underneath that glossy version, there’s a part that is not worried about the philosophy of the self. She cares only about how she looks and how others perceive her. Both versions coexist and try to share a cordial relationship. They fail every time. One version screams until the other can’t think or speak. They wrestle, trying to take control, attempting to kill the other. It’s a never-ending struggle.

Split between two mindsets I find myself in a constant dilemma. I worry persistently, especially when I start thinking about what next year will look like when I’m no longer a student. Would I have to get a low-paying, soul-sucking job? Would that job stop me from writing? Will I be myself if I can’t write? What makes me who I am?

There it is again, that question. Who the fuck am I?

Mania-induced creativity fueled this piece. Now it’s one of the four drafts open on my browser. I have to be honest; I have no idea how to answer that question. Part of me wanted to write this to push myself into getting to know myself better and doing a bit of reflecting, but now I’m panicking. I am not even a person yet. What even makes you a person? Breathing? I have no clue.

I think that more than anything, I want to be good—to myself, to others, to the earth. I want to create. To laugh. To see. To cry. To love. To experience life as it’s meant to. I don’t want to keep hiding in my room, scared of my own shadow, believing that every person is out to get me; that’s no way of living. I’ve been barely surviving.

I can’t say I will ever accurately answer this question if there is even one way to do it the “correct” way. Yet I can’t help but wonder, Who am I if not the sum of my parts? Who am I if not what I love, who I love? Who am I if not the person I am right now?

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter much if I cannot give a philosophical answer to one of the most complicated questions of humanity. I get the sense that even if I can’t explain it, I know who I am and who I want to be. I am full of complex, nuanced opinions and emotions. I change all the time. I am a contradiction most days. It’s part of being a human being.

Past me, future me, present me—she is me, and I am her. We are one.

I have a body, but I am not my body.

I have emotions, but I am not my emotions.

I have a mind, but I am not my mind.

I have roles to play in life, but I am not any of them.

I am a center of pure consciousness.

- Roberto Assagioli