We've all played parts we weren't ready for.

I've spent my life pulling on versions of myself like clothes from a wardrobe—slipping into one, discarding another—depending on the day, the city, the person in front of me. Some days loud—red lipstick, big laughs, arms flailing like fireworks. Other days quiet—eyes down, voice softened, body moving like furniture no one notices.

At 19, I started working because I wanted my own money. My freedom.

First job: hostess in a bar where the bass rattled my ribs, heels glued to sticky floors, the air heavy with beer and cologne. My smile was currency. Smile even when my feet blistered, even when someone said something that burned.

Then the supermarket. Hair tied back, polyester shirt clinging, fluorescent lights buzzing like they were mocking me. Handing out granola bars strangers grabbed without looking me in the eye. "It's high in fiber!"—on repeat, until even my own voice felt fake.

And the call center. Top floor, no AC, the air stale with coffee and electronics. Headset digging into my ear, thighs sticking to plastic chairs. No silence—ever. One call, then another, then another. A stranger's voice, and I'd morph on command: warm granddaughter for one, firm negotiator for another. My mouth adapting before my brain could catch up. Survival in scripts.

Then Germany. France. The UK. Business school in Nice. Every city, every job, every friendship demanded a new mask, a new rhythm, a new version of me. Fluent in accents. Fluent in adaptation. Fluent in vanishing.

And with every role, every airport, every room, I left pieces of myself behind. In every dream I chased, every café I lingered in, every person I loved. Fragments scattered across cities, jobs, versions of myself I'd never find again. Until one day I realized—I felt hollow. Drained. Like the world had torn my soul into strips, and I'd bartered them away just to belong.

Now I'm building something of my own. Standing in rooms where I'm supposed to lead, supposed to shine. Wearing the daring parts, the relentless parts.

But some days I stop mid-sentence, mid-smile, and all I feel are the ghosts of the versions I've been. And I wonder—what's left that's truly mine?

I was tired. I was fractured. My soul stretched thin, screaming to be free.

Maybe you've felt it too—that quiet panic of being scattered, of being too much and never enough at the same time. Of shape-shifting so well you forget your original shape.

So tell me—who are you, really?