Yes, I have two personalities
Every morning, I wake up as two people. One gets to work on time, texts back with the right amount of energy, and knows exactly how to behave in every room. The other stays a few steps behind, observing. He doesn’t always speak. He isn’t built for performance. He lingers in silences, gets overwhelmed by noise, forgets how to explain himself. But he’s me too.
I’ve spent so long sharpening the version of me that fits. The one that gets praised. That knows what to say, what to post, how to exist. And it works. It really does. But in private moments, I can feel the weight of it. The self I carry around for the world is not the same one I return to when the world is gone. One is full of potential. The other just wants presence. One grows. The other waits.
There’s a vacuum that forms between them. At first, it’s small. A little tiredness, a little numbness. But it keeps stretching. Like fabric pulled from both ends. One side clinging to who I’ve learned to be. The other to who I was before all the learning. Eventually, it starts to ache. Not because I’ve failed, but because I’m far from myself. And nothing fills that gap. Not praise. Not progress. Not even peace.
Sometimes, the fabric tears. Quietly. Mid-conversation. Mid-scroll. Mid-laugh. And the version that performs slips for a second. You see glimpses of the other one. Not curated. Not charming. Just raw and confused and still. And for a moment, there’s honesty. You’re not okay. Not fully. You’re just tired of being someone you’re not.
Maybe that’s what it means to be yourself. Not to rebel. Not to disappear. But to stop stretching so far between who you are and who you wear.
And maybe I just want to come home to myself..
