I am fearful that I won’t know what to do or who I am soon because I’ve become so busy trying to fit into this mold of what society expects of me and what I’ve expected of myself.

It’s like a constant erosion of my identity in favor of idealistic expectations. At the same time, I’m a good social actor. I do what I feel I am supposed to do, and I do it well.

Do I just make the most of a situation that’s ideal for someone, maybe not me, or do I shift directions and become too much of myself, so much so that I’m not sure what anyone would think?

- Anonymous

Hi Anonymous,

The fear you’re describing is the kind that doesn’t look like fear at all.

You go to work. You navigate the room correctly. People think you’re fine. And in some ways, you are. That’s what makes it so disorienting. The erosion isn’t visible in the performance. It’s happening underneath it.

I hear you when you say it’s cumulative. This kind of thing rarely announces itself in one moment. It happens in small decisions you didn’t quite realize you were making. You said the thing that fit instead of the thing that was true. You did it well enough that nobody questioned it. And then you did it again.

I stood out when I first attended a fancy private school back home in the Philippines. My grandfather drove me in his run-down owner jeep while everyone else arrived in air-conditioned cars. That wasn't what gave me away. I went to class, introduced myself in perfect English, in an accent that wasn't quite the exaggerated American of the well-off. It was subtle. But everyone could hear it. The speed with which my accent neutralized to blend in felt supernatural. I still do that today; my fellow Filipinos who witness it in action get a bit of whiplash.

So I know that shape. You learned to produce her long before any mold asked you to — this version of yourself who appears because the room requires it. Which is part of why she’s so hard to refuse now. She was never just a performance. She's a skill you built.

“At the same time, I’m a good social actor. I do what I feel I am supposed to do, and I do it well.”

There it is.

You’re not describing someone who has been worn away. You’re describing someone watching herself, very precisely, and wondering how long she can keep doing it. That’s not the same thing. The watcher is still there. The watcher wrote this letter.

So let me take your question apart.

You asked whether to make the most of a situation ideal for someone else, or shift directions and become “too much of yourself.” That last phrase is where I want to stay. Too much of yourself. For whom? You’ve made a quiet calculation about what the audience (whoever lives inside that sentence) will tolerate. You haven’t been wrong. The mold has worked. You just don’t know what the performing is in service of anymore.

I wrote my way into b-school. The GRE got waived that year, the one thing I struggled to crack. I sat down and wrote instead. It worked. My peers mostly came from families of scientists, engineers, lawyers, entrepreneurs. My first proper thought was: I got away with something. I'm probably not qualified enough to be here. The performance kept working. How far can I truly fake it, I kept wondering.

And after a while: what exactly am I faking?

Staying in the mold has a cost. The performance becomes practiced enough that you can’t always separate it from the person. One day you can’t quite remember which version you were wearing when.

Leaving it has a cost too. You don’t know yet what kind of room exists for the unmolded version. No one can promise that room exists, or that the people whose judgment you've been carrying are ready for her, or that the connections you've built while being her will survive the change.

I can’t tell you which one to choose. I’m not sure it’s a decision that gets made once.

What I’ll say instead: “I’m not sure what anyone would think” is the most honest sentence in your letter. That’s not an identity problem. It’s a visibility problem.

You know who you are. You’re afraid of being known. And the calculation you're really making, the one underneath all of it, is whether the people you've kept close know you, or only ever knew her.

not quite outside the mold herself,

it’s michelle d.

Hiii, in case you stumbled upon this serendipitously,

A quick intro:

I’m an intersectional human trying to figure out life, love, business, and help others a long the way. I write about the human stuff: the relationships we navigate, the decisions we second-guess, and the quiet confessions we keep to ourselves until someone asks the right question. Or rather, until someone gives us a safe space to voice out our questions.

One thing I learned from writing essays is how much I love the interaction and community around it. Hence the core concept of this newsletter: unsent letters.

Send me a Letter

Send me a quiet confession. Dilemmas that keep you awake, unspoken feelings, the truths that live only in your head. I don’t advise severely; I’m not qualified for that. But I can read, reflect, and remind you (& me) — it’s not just you. It’s us.

submit an unsent letter

Unsent letters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17

Personal rambles: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Behind-the-letter: 1

Join me in building the kind of community that reminds us someone out there understands. Everything here is free to read. Paid subscribers get a behind-the-letter post for certain pieces: the cuts, the detours, what I almost wrote instead. If the writing means something to you, that’s one way to stay closer to it. Or buy me a coffee. Both appreciated.

buy me a coffee?

Never miss an unsent letter.