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What does it actually mean to be yourself? We say things like, just be yourself, or I haven't felt like myself lately, and everybody seems to understand what we mean. But the more I've thought about that phrase, the stranger it seems to me. Because being yourself assumes that there is one version of you that you're supposed to return to. But which version would that be? Think about who you were 10 years ago. Think about what mattered to you then. Think about what you worried about, who you spent your time with, and what you imagine your life would eventually look like. There are probably things about that person you still recognize immediately, but I would imagine there are other parts that feel almost foreign to you now. And that's not necessarily because something went wrong. You've lived since then. You've met people you hadn't met yet. You've gone through things you couldn't have anticipated. You've probably succeeded at things you once doubted you could do and struggled with things you assumed would be easy. Some of your priorities changed along the way. And I would imagine your definition of a meaningful life has probably changed too. Yet sometimes, when we don't feel like the person we remember being, our first instinct is to assume we've somehow lost ourselves. I've been wondering if that's always true. Perhaps there are times when we aren't losing ourselves at all. Perhaps we're simply changing faster than our understanding of ourselves can keep us. I think we spend a lot of time trying to figure out where we're going without considering that the person choosing the destination isn't exactly the same person who started the journey. Experiences change us, relationships change us, success and failure change us. Sometimes getting older simply changes what we value. Most of that happens gradually, which is probably why we don't notice it while it's happening. Then, one day, we look at something we used to want or a way we used to behave and realize it doesn't feel quite as natural anymore. That's what I want to explore today. Not how to reinvent yourself or become some completely different person, but what happens when an older definition of yourself stops being an accurate description of who you are now? Imagine finding an old photograph of yourself somewhere. Maybe you're cleaning out a drawer and you come across a picture from high school or college, or maybe it's a photograph from when you were a kid. You look at it and immediately recognize yourself. There's no question that the person in the picture is you, but at the same time, you know that person isn't exactly you anymore. And I find that interesting. That person doesn't know what you know today. They haven't met everyone you've met. They don't know about some of the people they'll eventually lose or relationships that will become incredibly important to them. They haven't experienced your biggest disappointments or some of the moments you're most proud of. They might be worried about something you've completely forgotten. They might desperately want something you no longer care about. And there may even be things about themselves they wish were different that you now look back on with a lot more compassion. Somewhere between that photograph and the person listening to this right now, thousands of small experiences changed you. It probably didn't happen through one dramatic transformation. Most of us don't wake up one morning and realize we become someone else. It happens through conversations, relationships, disappointments, mistakes, opportunities, losses, ordinary days, and all of those little moments that don't seem particularly important until we realize how much they've shaped us. The photograph stayed the same. We didn't. A picture of who we believe ourselves to be. Sometimes that picture takes a little longer to change. I've started thinking of this as the identity lag. It's simply the space between the person we've become and the story we're still telling ourselves about who we are. I think most of us carry these little descriptions around without realizing how often we use them. We say we're shy or we're outgoing, we're responsible, we're independent, we're the person everyone can count on. We're not creative, we're bad at certain things, we're the funny one, the serious one, the successful one, the person who keeps going no matter what happens. Some of those descriptions may be completely accurate, and there's nothing wrong with having a sense of who you are. I think the problem begins when a description slowly becomes an obligation. If you've always been the person everyone relies on, asking for help can suddenly feel like you're betraying something about yourself. If you've always been independent, needing someone can make you feel uncomfortable. If you've built your identity around perseverance, changing direction can feel suspiciously similar to quitting, even when changing direction might be the healthiest decision you can make. At that point, we're not really asking ourselves who we are anymore. We're trying to remain consistent with a version of ourselves we've already established. And I wonder how often we do that without realizing it. It becomes even more complicated because we're not the only ones carrying around old pictures of ourselves. Other people have them too. Our parents remember versions of us, our siblings do. Friends we've known for 20 years remember things about us that newer friends have never seen. The people we work with may know an entirely different side of us. And if you've ever spent time with someone you haven't seen in years, you may have noticed something strange happen. Sometimes you start acting a little more like the person you were when you knew them. You fall into old jokes, old habits show up. You might even hear yourself talking differently. I've always found that fascinating because it reminds me that identity isn't formed in isolation. Certain people and places become connected to certain versions of ourselves. That isn't necessarily a bad thing. There can be something really comforting about being around people who remember where we came from. But it can also make changing uncomfortable. When you've spent years being one kind of person within a family, friendship, or relationship, changing that role can feel strange for everyone involved. People might continue expecting the old response because that's the response they know. And sometimes, without anybody asking us to, we give it to them. We step back into the familiar role because it's easier than figuring out who we are in that relationship now. I think part of growing up is realizing that somebody else's memory of you can be true without needing to become your future. They aren't wrong for remembering who you were, but you aren't wrong for changing either. When I look at my own life, I can see versions of myself that made a lot of sense for what I was experiencing at the time. Growing up, there were periods when I compared myself to my older brothers and felt like I was playing catch-up. There were also experiences that affected my confidence, and for a long time, I wasn't really comfortable sharing everything I was feeling. So I became pretty good at keeping certain things inside. I tried to remain positive, I kept moving forward, I learned to persevere when things were difficult. And I don't look back at those qualities negatively. In many ways, they help shape me. And I still value optimism and perseverance tremendously. What I've learned though is that a quality can help you through a period of your life without needing to dictate how you live every period that comes after it. For example, staying positive can be incredibly valuable. But if positivity becomes part of your identity, you can start believing that acknowledging when you're struggling somehow makes you less positive. The same thing can happen with perseverance. There were times in my life when continuing to push forward was exactly what I needed to do. But perseverance doesn't have to mean continuing down every road simply because you've started walking on it. Sometimes growth is recognizing the difference. I don't think we need to criticize the older version of ourselves, the way they learned to survive, succeed, fit in, or make sense of the world. They were working with the experience and understanding they had at the time. In some cases, that person got us through something. We can appreciate that without asking them to make every decision for us now. I think this is one reason personal growth can feel a lot more complicated than we usually make it sound. We tend to describe growth in terms of what we're gaining. We want more confidence, more clarity, more discipline, more wisdom, more of whatever quality we believe will make our lives better. But growing also means that certain things don't fit anymore. Sometimes it's a goal, sometimes it's a relationship or a routine, sometimes it's an idea you had about what success was supposed to look like. And I think that that can create a strange kind of guilt because we tend to believe that if something once mattered to us, it should continue mattering to us. If you spent years pursuing something, how can you suddenly decide you don't want it anymore? If you've always been one kind of person, why would you want to change now? But think about that. Think about that for a moment. What would be the point of going through life, collecting experiences, if none of those experiences were allowed to change our minds? The person you were five or ten years ago made decisions using the information they had then. They didn't know everything that would happen after. You do. Changing your mind doesn't automatically mean your old decision was wrong. Sometimes it simply means you know something now that you didn't know then. There's another side to this though, because sometimes we genuinely do miss an older version of ourselves. I think that's important to acknowledge. Maybe you remember being more spontaneous than you are today. Perhaps you used to create things simply because you enjoyed creating them before you started worrying about whether you were good at it. Maybe you were more trusting, more playful, more curious, or simply less concerned with how people perceived you. When someone says, I just want to feel like myself again, perhaps they aren't actually asking to become the person they used to be. Maybe they're missing something that person had. Those qualities aren't trapped in the past. Perhaps growing doesn't mean leaving every previous version of ourselves behind. Maybe it means becoming a little more intentional about what we bring with us. I think one of the reasons we can feel lost during periods of change is because we continue looking for ourselves in the places where we used to find ourselves. We return to an old goal and wonder why it doesn't motivate us anymore. We go through the same routine and wonder why it doesn't feel as fulfilling. We spend time doing something we used to love and realize, for whatever reason, it doesn't have the same hold on us. Then we assume the problem must be us. But imagine trying to navigate a city using a map from 20 years ago. A lot of it would probably still be useful. Some of the roads would be exactly where they were, certain landmarks would look familiar, but other things would have changed. New roads would exist, old buildings might be gone, neighborhoods would look different, the city wouldn't be wrong because it changed. The map simply wouldn't describe all of it anymore. I think we carry maps of ourselves too. We have ideas about what we look at, what we're good at, what kind of work we're supposed to do, what a good life means to us. And we're supposed to be within that life. And every once in a while, perhaps it's worth checking whether the map still matches the territory. Because sometimes we aren't lost. We're simply looking for ourselves in places we've already outgrown. So perhaps instead of immediately asking ourselves how to get back to the person we used to be, there's another question we can ask. Who am I now? I don't mean that in some huge existential sense where you need to sit down tonight and completely redefine yourself. Actually, I think that would be defeating the purpose. Maybe it's enough to become curious. Pay attention to what matters to you now. Notice what doesn't matter quite as much as it used to. Think about the things you've learned about yourself over the last few years that a younger version of you couldn't possibly have known. And perhaps. Pay attention to the things you continue doing simply because they become part of your story. I've always done this. I've never been someone who's done that. I'm just not that kind of person. Whenever I hear myself saying things like that, I think it's worth asking whether I'm describing myself or limiting myself. Because there's comfort in knowing who we are, but there's also freedom in admitting that we don't know everything about ourselves yet. I don't think identity needs to be a finished statement. Perhaps it can remain a conversation. When I was younger, I think part of me assumed adulthood was the point where you eventually figured yourself out. You know what you wanted, what you would believe, what kind of person you were, and where your life was headed. Then you would simply go live it. I'm not sure I believe that anymore. The older I get, the more I think we continue meeting ourselves throughout our lives. Certain challenges reveal things about us that comfort never could. Relationships can show us parts of ourselves that we wouldn't see on our own. Failure can change our direction, but success can do that too. And sometimes we simply become interested in something we never expected to care about. I actually like the thought that I don't completely know who I'll be 10 years from now. I hope there are things about that person that would surprise me today. I hope I've changed my mind about a few things. I hope I've learned something that alters the way I see the world. I hope there are parts of myself that I haven't discovered yet because I haven't lived the experiences that will reveal them. To me, that doesn't make identity feel less stable. It makes life feel more open. We can know ourselves while still leaving room to become someone we couldn't have predicted. So go back to that photograph just for a moment. Imagine that you could actually sit across from the person in it. They don't know anything that happens after the picture is taken, but you do. I wonder what they would ask you. They might want to know whether the things they're worried about eventually work out. They'd probably ask about people they haven't met yet. Maybe they want to know whether they accomplished the things they're currently dreaming about. And I think the answer would probably be complicated. Some things worked out exactly the way you hoped, others didn't. Some things you desperately wanted became part of your life. While others eventually stopped mattering to you altogether. There were probably people you thought would have been there who aren't anymore. And people you couldn't possibly have imagined who became incredibly important. And through all of that, you changed. After all, they were never supposed to remain frozen in that picture. They were supposed to live. And living was always going to change them. So if you've been going through a period where you don't quite feel like yourself, perhaps you don't need to immediately assume that you've lost who you are. Take time to consider who it is you're actually trying to find. There may be pieces of that person worth returning to. There may be qualities you miss and want to bring forward with you, but there may also be parts you've simply outgrown. And that's okay. You don't have to become a completely different person. You also don't have to spend the rest of your life proving that you're still the person you used to be. Perhaps knowing yourself isn't about finding one permanent version and holding on to them forever. Perhaps it's about continuing to pay attention as that person changes. Being grateful for who you've been, being present with who you are, and leaving just enough room for whoever you're still becoming. Till next time, live uplifted.