Excuse Me, Who Are You?

You know that moment when someone casually asks, "Who are you?" or "Where do you belong?" and your brain suddenly forgets all its vocabulary? You stand there smiling, buying time with an "errr…" or "ahhh…," as if your identity is loading on slow internet. It sounds like a very simple question, yet answering it feels like a spider crawling on your skin. At least, it does for me.

To begin with, I hate the idea of introducing oneself. Back in college, when seniors asked for introductions again and again and again, I felt like punching their faces. Though I am proud of where I come from and who I am, I don't enjoy explaining myself in neat little sentences.

If you ask me, people should be known slowly through time, and with casual conversations rather than through a fixed set of questions that feel like forms waiting to be filled.

I often prepare answers in my head when someone asks me, "Who are you?" On the surface, it sounds simple. But the question is heavier than it appears. My identity stays the same, yet its reflection changes with every person who looks at it. My answer depends entirely on who is asking. When a five-year-old asks me who I am, I tell her I am a grown-up who finishes all her veggies and never skipped school which is why I am now allowed to enjoy life. When a friend of my parents asks, I say I am working by my own choice. When a teenager asks, I say I am a Gen Z who does not cry over hashtag wars on social media. When a relative asks me, I say I am "settled enough" and quickly change the topic. When a stranger asks me, I say I am just someone who is figuring things out.

Does my identity change depending on the audience?!!!!

We have grown up believing identity is something firm. Firm like a name stitched on a school bag. But it feels more like a mirror in a crowded room, reflecting different faces at once. At home, I become one person. With friends, another. Online, a brighter draft. Alone, an unfinished sentence. 

Without realizing it, we become skilled at shape-shifting. We choose our words the way we choose outfits —based on comfort, context, and how much we wish to be understood. And slowly, a quieter question arrives: Do I belong anywhere as I am?

Some days, I feel rooted. Some days, I feel like a visitor in my own life. I think this is what an identity crisis feels like!! Not dramatic, not loud. More like standing in front of a wardrobe full of clothes and still whispering, "I have nothing to wear." One day I want certainty. The next, freedom. One moment I want to be seen. The next, I want to disappear. And suddenly, "Who are you?" feels heavier than it should.

We are taught to pick labels early: student, daughter, artist, teacher, dreamer, strong one. But humans are not shelves. We are cupboards with cluttered drawers. Some days, we pull out courage. Some days, doubt. Some days, an old dream folded carefully at the back and forgotten. And somehow, everyone else appears sure.

People say, "I've always known what I wanted." I simply nod, while secretly wondering if they say this because they achieved something later. I also wonder whether one can completely understand one’s own self. Maybe people figure out their lives very early. For me, it is still a wonder.

So when someone asks me, "Where do you belong?" I feel like saying, "I belong to many versions, and I don't know how to put all of those into words." Maybe identity is not a destination at all. Maybe it is a road with missed exits and sudden U-turns. We do not find ourselves like lost keys under a sofa. We build ourselves— changing identities midway.

And maybe an identity crisis is not about being lost at all. Perhaps it is about realizing we are too many things to fit into one answer. I am not a fixed definition. I am an evolving sentence, with commas, corrections, and a few dramatic exclamation marks. For now, I'll leave you with this to overthink: when someone asks you who you are... do you answer with a label, or with a feeling? Anyway, before I start questioning my existence, I'll stop here. See you next week:)