becoming: a short story

This story is told in three parts: the Prologue, the Body (Becoming), and the Epilogue.

Each story captures a different moment in time: a reflection of who I was, who I tried to become, and what I am still searching for.

This is a story of memory, emotion, and reckoning of a question left unanswered.

Prologue

Three years ago, I attempted to answer a simple question for a personal portfolio essay assigned by Ms. Han during the first week of my sophomore year.

"Who am I? … I know the things I like and dislike, the events that have shaped the person that I am. But I can't seem to put my finger on who exactly that is."

I wrote those lines in frustration, realizing that no matter how many labels or achievements I could pile up, the question would remain unanswered.

Then, I turned to my surroundings. I began by writing about my father, the man who built a successful life out of nothing.

"He is the epitome of the American Dream everyone hears about... Even though we don't get along, I can always say for sure that I look up to his hard work ethic and pure intelligence."

I wrote about my mother, and her quiet strength in her years of sacrifice. For most of my life, I clung to her. Not because she was perfect by any means, but because she was the little support that I had.

"She got married with no say to a man she didn't like and was sent off to a foreign land where she knew no one except her new husband, whom she met a week ago."

And then, I turned inwards.

"As a child, I was always curious, stubborn, and ridiculously independent... When my parents had one of their episodes I helped [my brother] feel his emotions out and I gave him what he needed, a safe space."

It feels strange to read these words now. Strange how early I took care of others even though there was no one to take care of me. Strange how I bent myself to be what other people needed, because if I couldn't have it, at least I could try to give it to someone else.

"A small part of me will always wish that I was enough to make them proud. At the same time, another part of me wishes that they were proud of me for who I am."

This still stings.

I wrote about my passions and hobbies.

"Speech and Debate... just fell on my lap... I loved reading and writing essays... I cooked for myself out of stubborn independence... I discovered a love for ceramics and wheel throwing..."

I often get caught up questioning if I truly am passionate about the things I do. This was a gentle reminder that some things, are indeed real.

Finally, I admitted the truth.

"I still haven't answered the question. Who am I? Well, I guess I still don't fully know. And that's okay... our story keeps changing."

This answer satisfied me three years ago. After all, I had the rest of high school to figure it out before going out into the real world, right? Three years later, I seem to be just as lost.

Body (Becoming)

There was a girl. Not a particularly fast one. But she ran. And for a short time, that meant something. No one really expected her to keep showing up. Least of all herself. Because she really hadn't grown up with dreams of finishing with strong kicks or PR's. For most of her life, she never thought it was even an option for herself. It was for other people. The ones with piles of running shoes beat down far past their mileage, with Liquid IV on auto-reload, and a drawer full of race bibs. The ones whose identities had been built mile by mile over years upon years. Not for someone like her, a girl who didn't realize she was missing something until she accidentally stumbled upon it in a pair of running shoes.

Still, she ran. She didn't want to touch anything too quickly and leave fingerprints where they didn't belong. But slowly, quietly, and unexpectedly, something shifted. Somewhere within the calculated balance of breath and heart, something cracked open inside of her. It was terrifying.

Because for the first time, she was able to look in the mirror and almost recognize what she saw. Someone she didn't hate. The girl staring back at her in the mirror had done something challenging for no reason other than herself. She pushed. Learning to breathe through the pain. She kept going when it hurt. That girl was someone strong. Someone disciplined. Someone who cared. As the workouts flew by, she felt her back straighten and something solid beneath her feet.

There was a stretch of weeks where everything just seemed to make sense in the simplest way. There was effort, there was pain that made her feel alive, there was laughter on warm ups, and pride in every sore muscle after a hard workout. There was a version of her that didn't have to question if she was acting, because the sore legs and burning lungs couldn't be faked. She didn't have to perform. It was all real. It made her want to believe that she was too.

Then, it ended. As everything does. Like waking up from a good dream, struggling to remember it. At first, she grieved. The only way she knew how. Distantly. No tears. Just the memories left behind. She let them pass through her like smoke, and let the skin that just started to fit right blow away with them.

It was her first season, and her last. Just five measly months. Not enough to warrant heartbreak by anyone's standards. The ones that had been running for years, they deserved to grieve. The ones that had medals and records and a pile of CIF patches. But her? Who barely scraped by decent times, what right did she have to feel anything?

That was the scariest part. How quickly she was willing to doubt everything she had just built.

Isn't this what she always did? Try on versions of herself, unsure if they fit? She was always performing. Even behind closed doors, where she was the only audience. She was never anyone but a rotating cast of characters, hoping one of them would finally stick. But it never did.

A few months on the track and she felt alive. A couple weeks off it and she became so fragile that a slight breeze could sweep her off her feet. She hated it. How deeply she wanted to be someone she could point to, say "yes, that's me," and not feel like it was all a facade.

The truth was, she didn't trust herself. Never had. After a lifetime of walking on glass and being made to question her choice, her worth, her personality, and every piece of herself, why would she? She second guessed everything. How much she liked something, whether she actually wanted it, whether she was even faking the wanting. There was no real way to explain that. The way she felt like a stranger in her own skin. A feeling that made her chest hollow in a way she couldn't repair.

She didn't know how to say that sometimes, she didn't feel real. So, she became good at pretending. She became good at saying the right things, in the right way, with the right smile. She would change herself mid-conversation without anyone noticing. She would feel the exact moment she was being too much, or not enough, and shift accordingly. A lifetime of living in survival mode taught her how to become whoever the moment needed. She was an expert at reading rooms, people, and knowing what parts of herself to hide. She became someone easy to love. And people believed it. It was a kind of pretending that made her tired. The kind that sinks into your bones.

The worst part? No one would ever guess. She made sure of it. She was the girl who cracked jokes, gave advice, and remembered her friends' orders at their favorite restaurants. She cheered the loudest when she felt like falling apart. She knew how to keep it together. She loved in the way she yearned for someone to love her.

But every time the room got quiet, or she was driving home alone, it would hit her. That hollow ache. The sinking feeling that there was nothing real about her. After all, she was just a series of half formed selves. Was everything people liked about her something she built for them?

Epilogue

I wrote those words in one sitting in the aftermath of track season, sitting in a quiet room. My heart beat too fast, like it always did when everything went still. The girl on the track felt like a dream I briefly slipped into. And then I was back to being…whatever I was before. I felt unrecognizable again. Lost. Right back where I started.

Graduation is a measly three weeks away. People ask me what I am most excited for. I answer in the way that sounds just about right: new beginnings, independence, college. But deep down, all I feel is a pit in my stomach and an ache in my heart. Not for high school, or even all the friends I'll never see again. But for the childhood I never fully got to live. For the girl I might have been if I wasn't forced to learn how to disappear so early.

I wish I knew if I was becoming someone. A future version of me that is whole, steady, and at peace with herself. Someone who didn't have to rehearse every sentence in her head before saying it. Someone who could sit in a room and feel like she belonged.

But right now, I don't feel like I am becoming. I just feel lost. So, I do what I always do. I keep moving. Because if I stop, I'll be forced to face the hollow ache in my chest and the stranger staring back from the mirror. I don't know that I will ever learn to love her. I don't know that the ache will ever quiet. Maybe it's the only proof that I'm alive.

Some days I catch a glimpse of myself and think: Maybe this is me finally emerging. Other days, I suspect it's just the same broken pieces in a new pattern. I carry that doubt like a second skin. Sometimes, it digs so deep that I can't tell where I end and doubt begins. I move, but it doesn't feel brave. I plan for tomorrow, but it doesn't feel definite. I breathe and my heart beats, but that alone feels like a question I don't have the answer to.

Maybe one day, I will be able to look back and make sense of this.

Maybe I never will.