Who am I? On the most basic biological level, I am a woman. An Asian woman with dark hair, a high nose, and peach skin. I have thick eyebrows that I hate, almond eyes with a color resembling mud and a body that easily blends into the crowd. But those are unimportant, those things require sight and it’s not like anyone will see me this quarter. 

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There are things that don’t require sight to see. Letters are strokes painting colors to a person’s character, you don’t need to see that, you just have to listen to their story. My story isn’t very long. 

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Who I am started just a few years ago, freshman year of college. Before that, I didn’t exist. I was merely a canvas of which people coming and exiting my life got to fill in the blanks to my character. I am nice. I am smart. I am responsible. My biggest fear is to disappoint, so I went along with who I was supposed to be in their eyes, in hopes that it would lead me closer to who I should be in my eyes. Parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, successful cousins, friends, partners, strangers who I’ll never see again. No, I could never let them down. 

At home, when I didn’t exist, I was poised, obedient, nurturing. I couldn’t speak up when it wasn’t my turn to speak. I couldn’t argue against the older brother who is selfish and uncaring. I couldn’t tell my family how much I didn’t want to be a doctor. No, I couldn’t disappoint them because that would mean disappointing my dead father. 

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On social media, when I didn’t exist, I was the girl that knew nothing of the word lonely. I was always surrounded by friends, potential suitors, taking pictures of aesthetic sceneries knowing that I didn’t care about any of that. I only cared about letting my audience know the most authentic side of me. 

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At school, when I didn’t exist, I was the model student. Class president, NHS leader, IB diploma recipient, valedictorian. Praises from teachers fed my ego and I absorbed comments into my skin because I craved validations. Criticism was not my friend and I didn’t welcome her. I hated the part of me that made mistakes, I wished she was dead. 

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I shouldn’t have wished for something like that, because she’s the exact person I needed to be. To make mistakes, to fail, in order to know what true success and happiness feel like. When I started to exist, it was when I realized to keep living my life as a blank canvas for other people wasn’t as fulfilling as I thought it would be. I was looking for approval in the wrong places, I never asked myself if I was happy with who I was. The answer is obvious, but I still should have asked. 

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To say that I am none of those things would be a lie. The past never fully dies. Traces of whom I was still lingered on my body, like fragments of a fucked up dream. Now that I exist, I see the joy in making mistakes, and learning from it. At home, I allow myself more confidence to point out hierarchical issues and sexism. I don’t let myself be poised all the time because it gets exhausting, and I don’t need to impress my family, they’re stuck with me no matter what.  

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When I share my life online, I tell myself that it’s okay that I only post selfies with cringy lyrics because that is the real representation of how I live my life. I throw in a little scenery and food every now and then as a special treat to my audience. But again, I don’t need to impress them. 

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Going to college was an eye-opening experience. My mom never got the opportunity, so everything was new to us. Applying, financial aid, visiting the campus, seeing endless strangers that I’ll see every day, and still might now know any of their names. That’s okay, I don’t have to win their approval as long as I’m happy with myself. 

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I am flawed. I am dramatic. I am quiet. I am insecure. I am confident. I am organized. I am wonderful. I am beautiful. I am creative. I am clever. I am funny. I am happy.