The Person I Keep Looking For

I wonder how many versions of me I've abandoned just to make it through another day.

There was a time when I didn't have to think so hard about being myself. I existed without questioning every little thing I said, every emotion I felt, every version of myself that showed up in a room.

Now, even happiness feels rehearsed sometimes.

I have become very good at functioning. At answering questions, meeting expectations, showing up, laughing at the right moments. I know how to keep a life running. I just don't know when I stopped feeling like I was living one.

And the strangest part is, I don't remember losing myself.

There was no particular morning when I woke up different. No dramatic goodbye. No final moment I could revisit and say, there, that's where I left her.

I just kept going.

And somewhere in all that going, I left someone behind.

I still look for her sometimes. In old photographs, in familiar songs, in the things I no longer do. I wonder if she would recognise me. I wonder if she'd be disappointed. Or worse, if she'd understand exactly why I became this way.

I wish I could tell her that I tried.

God, I wish I could tell her how hard I tried.

But I haven't found her yet.

And I'm beginning to wonder whether finding myself means going back to someone I can no longer be, or finally learning how to live with the stranger I've become.