you cannot carry every version of yourself home.

who am I?

We question ourselves over and over. We whisper it before we sleep like a prayer we so desperately need answered. Even when we believe we’ve discovered a string of words that seemingly fit, the shape of the void morphs into another question. It is scary how clueless we are to our changing, unaware until we are forced to grieve a version of ourselves we outgrew. We find ourselves bundling old hobbies; distant friends; forgotten dreams, into a little bag, to donate like pre-loved clothing.

We watch people walk in and out, through the revolving door of our four-walls. Each goodbye takes another piece of our soul, like furniture; and what remains: an empty space and dints in the carpet—a reminder of what once was. Yet, they always forget something too; their Metallica tee, or the dimple on their cheek, or the reverb of their laugh.

Home shifts, from our childhood backyard, to a lovers embrace, to a cafe a thousand miles away. At times, we find ourselves homeless, yearning for a place in the world; and we will make a home out of anyone, anywhere, if we don’t find one in our own skin. It is always in desperation that we most forget ourselves. Yet, our biggest flaw in all of this, is how we carry all of it, everything; we simply cannot let go. Our mind sinks its teeth into all that touches us; and it will exhaust itself before it ever dares loosen its jaw.

On sleepless nights, the ceiling resembles past faces; their words still perch upon your shoulders and echo in quiet rooms. The heaviness of your chest is but a reminder of what you still allow to weigh on you.

How could I possibly map my future, when I am the kind of lost that lacks destination; not wandering toward anything, just drifting further from versions of myself I no longer recognise.

I realise that the body cannot bury what the soul is trying to revive.

We hold on because we’re scared if we let go, then what we experienced was purposeless. If we walk away, we’ll be forgotten by people whose eyes are burned into our very skulls. And we fear that if we stop looking back, the past and everything we held so dearly will disappear, and what then do we make of the lingering ache? How then can we define who we are?

But, we mistake our sorrow for a life raft. Letting go of it does not mean that we will drown. It only feels that way because it once kept us afloat, but time has passed, the storm has cleared; when do we decide we are safe enough to tread water alone?

Make space for what could be, what might be, if only your hands were free of the shackles you have them in. It is a gruelling, humbling process to dismantle whatever reason you have, for why you can’t change. To unclench the muscle memory of pursuing a life that was never meant for you. Sometimes closure isn’t what you need, distance is. It is standing still in the present and accepting, i no longer belong here.

Sometimes you look at me like you can see it; the baggage I carry. When I look with enough care I see yours too. In the way your foot taps when you talk about the past. In how your eyes flicker to a stranger with a familiar build. Or how you fall quiet when that old song plays in the car.

There are truths I resisted for a long while, subtle ones that I only named when they became urgent.

You can love someone deeply, and still not belong. Love is not enough to keep you safe, or to allow space to grow. Sometimes leaving is the most loving thing you can do for yourself, and for them. Sometimes being left was the only way you could return to yourself. And I don’t believe you must love yourself before you can love another, but I know of how easily it is misplaced when it isn’t held within. Where love is undisciplined, respect and alignment persist.

You can abandon the dreams that once gave you purpose. What once motivated you and shaped you may now suffocate you. That is the discomfort of growth. There comes a time where resilience becomes self-betrayal; when the life you built no longer fits, but you wear it out of loyalty to who you told the world you were. Darling, you are allowed to change your mind. To paint over a future you once marvelled at and begin again.

Grief is a form of devotion, but so is moving on. You do not dishonour the past, or yourself, by choosing peace. At some point, continuing to bleed is no longer proof that you were wounded, only that you refused to heal. And eventually, you will bleed on someone who didn’t cut you. An open wound festers. It spreads. It becomes something that rots beyond where it began. Happiness will always return, but not when something has been left untreated.

Not everything that touches you is meant to be held. We can confuse intensity with permanence. But some moments are only meant to alter your direction, not accompany you there. Some people come only to hold a mirror to you, to reveal something you had not yet seen. A person, a place, a problem: these are only excerpts from your story. You are the only constant. If you are to hold anything, let it be yourself.

Letting go won’t always feel like relief. Mostly, it mimics emptiness. It is mourning what was, when absence settles in your chest. We cling because we learn to identify with our pain. We forget who we were before it, and fear we’ll lose ourselves in the process of healing. But you are not meant to become your agony, only to endure it. To mould it into a suit of armour, not to inject it into your veins.

So when you ask: who am I? Maybe it is not a question that demands an answer, but one that inspires your willingness to change. You are not something to be defined once and understood indefinitely. You shift and you shed, you become unfamiliar to yourself and the world, over and over again.

There’s a life ahead of you, waiting to be lived by who you’re becoming, not by who you’ve been.

Maybe the question is,

who do I get to be now?

—may you find yourself a little more each day, amber.

Hello again, beautiful people. It’s been eight months since I last shared here, and so much has changed. the hunger to be everything reached more people than I ever expected and I’m still in awe of that, still slowly grasping it. Please know how deeply grateful I am, for every read, every message, every moment of resonance. I have a lot to catch up on. Thank you for being here, still. I hope these new words find you well.