I don’t know who I am in some rooms

There are versions of me that only exist in certain rooms.

I don’t mean that in a metaphorical, soul-searching kind of way; though, maybe I do. I mean it in the very real, very practiced sense that I have learned how to shift. To rearrange the furniture of myself depending on who is coming over. To tone down, brighten up, rehearse my laughter, and soften my questions. I’ve done it so well, and so long, that sometimes I wonder if I even know what my default setting is anymore. Or if that setting was ever mine to begin with.

I became fluent in code-switching before I had the language to name it. Not just linguistically, but in identity. In expectation. In fear.

There is Who I Am.
There is Who I’m Supposed to Be.
And there is Who I’m Afraid to Become.

I switch between them like tabs I keep open in my mind, praying I don’t close the wrong one at the wrong time.

But it’s not just me.

I see it in friends who light up in some rooms and dim in others. People who change their language, stiffen their bodies, and perform what is expected. It’s not always conscious or malicious. Sometimes, it’s just how we’ve survived.

Girls quiet their voices. Boys deepen theirs. Church kids over-spiritualize. Quiet people overextend. Confident people shrink.

We adapt. We perform. We fragment.

And most times, no one notices. Or worse, they applaud us for it.

Let’s start with Who I Am.

She is layered. Quiet. Writes tender things. Forgets to reply to messages out of overwhelm. She cries sometimes and can’t always explain why. Thinks deeply, loves slowly, has too many browser tabs open, literally and emotionally. She is soft, and present.

She likes solitude but fears invisibility. She wants to be known but also hides, instinctively. She is the version of me I trust the most, but also the one I silence the quickest when I feel the air shift – when someone raises an eyebrow or offers unsolicited advice that sounds too much like correction.

Then there’s Who I’m Supposed to Be.

She is articulate. Diligent. Calm. Controlled. She shows up at the right times. Smiles when she should. She is well-liked in groups. She wears responsibility like perfume. She says the right things. She is godly. Graceful. Glowing. She is a professional at performance.

But she exhausts me.

Because every time I choose her, I abandon parts of myself that were never meant to be hidden. I silence my confusion. I compress my anger into quiet gratitude. I swap questions for clichés – “God’s got this,” “I’m fine,” “I’m trusting the process” – even when my life feels like it’s spiraling out of control.

I don’t resent her. She helped me survive. She got me through rooms where honesty would have been mistaken for weakness. She helped me earn trust, and avoid unnecessary explanations. But I do wonder how long she can keep carrying the weight of everyone else’s expectations, and still call it obedience.

Still, there is a version I’ve buried deeper than all the rest.

Who I’m Afraid to Become.

She is the one who says no and doesn’t follow it with an apology. She prioritizes rest without guilt. She walks away from people who only love her in fragments. She doesn’t always have a plan. She doesn’t always believe that everything will work out. But she tells the truth. She says and does the hard things. She shows up whole, even when it’s messy.

She is the version of me that doesn’t always show up to prove something. She doesn’t clean up her sadness before speaking. She writes things that feel like confessions. She is reckless, maybe. Or brave. I haven’t decided yet. But I think she is the most rooted of them all.

Sometimes I wonder if she exists in other people too – if we all have versions we’re afraid to become.

I wonder how many people are quietly tired of shape-shifting, scanning rooms for cues, wondering if their true voice is too much, and shrinking themselves into people-pleasing silhouettes just to feel safe, accepted, and seen.

There is a strange grief in constantly recalibrating yourself to be digestible. You start to wonder: if they only love the curated version of me, do they love me at all? You learn how to be liked. But you forget how to be known.

And yet, we keep performing. We show up in fragments. We switch tones. Swallow emotion. Tuck away our real selves because we’ve been taught that honesty can be dangerous.

But no one tells you that code-switching doesn’t keep you safe forever. Eventually, you glitch. You forget the script. You say too much in the wrong place. You show up as the wrong version. You confuse the room. And you confuse yourself.

Then comes the guilt, which is inescapable. The inner reprimand: You should have known better. You should have read the room.

But maybe the point isn’t to keep reading the room. Maybe the point is to stop shrinking just to fit it.

Because the more we code-switch, the more we lose fluency in our first language: ourselves. We become so used to bending that we forget how to stand as we are. Over time, the self we perform becomes louder than the self we actually live. And the longer we stay fragmented, the harder it becomes to remember which version of us is real.

That loss isn’t just disorienting; it’s deeply lonely. Because even when people love us, we can’t help but wonder if they are only loving the edited draft. And if that’s the case, are we truly loved at all?

Eventually, the performance wears thin. The mask slips. We begin to crave something deeper than acceptance. We crave connection and alignment. We want to come home to ourselves.

And that’s where the real work begins.

Integration is hard work. It’s choosing to sit with every version of you: the loud, the quiet, the confused, the healing; and give them space to breathe. It’s not rushing them into perfection or fixing them. It’s being present. It’s paying attention. It’s allowing your full self to exist in one place without shame.

And I think we can be like that. Whole, not fragmented.

I want to be one person everywhere. Not the curated version. Not the people-pleaser. Just me. Even if she's misunderstood. Because I don’t want to keep translating myself just to be loved.

I want to speak plainly in the full dialect of who I am. And fully become fluent in wholeness, and not self-switching.

12:54

June 18, 2025.