The weight of expectation

Who am I, really? The question sounds ridiculous at first, like something you'd hear in a pretentious philosophy class. But every time I think I have an answer, it slips away. How much of what I love, what I believe in, what I dream of—is actually mine? And how much of it is just a collection of things I was told to be?

From the moment we’re born, we’re immersed in norms, traditions, and unspoken rules. They dictate what’s “acceptable,” what’s “desirable,” and even what’s “possible.” These influences run so deep that it’s hard to tell where they end and where we begin. Do I really love the things I claim to love? Or have I adapted to them because that’s what was expected of me?

Family is often the first source of influence. Parents, knowingly or not, project their hopes and fears onto us. Maybe you were told from a young age that you needed to follow a specific path—a respectable education, a stable career, a life that aligns with family values. Maybe you grew up hearing things like, “That’s not a real job,” or “This is what’s best for you,” so many times that you started believing them. I think about the friends I had who were pushed into careers they didn’t love, into relationships they weren’t sure about, because saying no would have meant disappointing the people who had given them everything. And I wonder, do they even realize it? Or have they convinced themselves that this is what they wanted all along?

I think about the girl I knew in high school, who used to love painting more than anything. She would sketch on the edges of her notebooks, spend hours lost in colors and lines. But by the time we were in university, she had stopped. When I asked her why, she just laughed and said, “There’s no point. No one cares unless you’re exceptional.” I remember the way she said it, like she had already made peace with the idea that her passions weren’t worth anything unless they could be turned into success. And I wonder how many of us have done the same—quietly buried parts of ourselves because they didn’t fit the mold of what’s seen as valuable.

What happens when your desires clash with what you’ve been taught to want? Some rebel; others quietly fade, crushed under the weight of expectations. In either case, the conflict remains: Are you truly free if you’re constantly fighting against what’s expected of you?

Society plays a similar role, but on a much larger scale. It tells you how to dress, how to speak, and what you need to achieve to be considered “successful” or “admirable.” Social media amplifies this pressure. We’re bombarded with images of perfect lives, flawless bodies, and dazzling achievements. The constant comparison leaves you questioning if you’re enough—enough to be noticed, enough to matter. But there’s something hollow about this endless chase for validation. If all these expectations vanished tomorrow, what would be left? What would you love without the weight of others’ gazes? Who would you be if no one was watching?

Our past experiences add another layer to the intricate tapestry of identity. The wounds, the victories, the friendships lost—all of it leaves a mark. Yet, memories are rarely faithful. They’re often rewritten through the lens of time and emotion.

I think about the first time I truly failed at something. How it felt like I had broken a contract I never even agreed to sign. I wasn’t allowed to fall apart. Up until then, I had built my identity on competence—on being the person who could figure things out, who didn’t make mistakes that mattered. And then, suddenly, I did.

I remember the weight in my stomach when I saw the result, the way my mind immediately scrambled for an explanation, for something, anything, that could make it not real. I remember sitting in a room full of people and feeling like I wasn’t really there, like I was watching my own life from the outside. The worst part wasn’t even the failure itself. It was the silence that followed—the unspoken expectation that I should just handle it. That breaking down wasn’t an option, that being anything less than perfect wasn’t part of the image I was supposed to maintain.

It’s strange how easily one moment can unravel everything you thought you knew about yourself. How a single failure can make you realize how much of your identity was built on something fragile, something you didn’t even realize was a condition for self-worth. And once that’s gone, you’re left staring at yourself, wondering which parts are real and which ones were just performances for approval.

But what if identity is something fluid? What if who we are isn’t a fixed point, but a shifting, evolving force? Maybe we aren’t meant to have a singular, definite answer to the question of who we are. Maybe identity is a story we keep writing and rewriting, influenced by the people we meet, the places we go, and the things we allow ourselves to feel deeply.

Breaking free from external influences isn’t about isolating yourself or rejecting everything you’ve ever known. It’s about learning to distinguish between what resonates with you and what has merely been imposed upon you. It means asking yourself uncomfortable questions: What do I truly love? What do I want? And perhaps the hardest of all: Who am I without the expectations of others?

It takes courage, but also immense patience. Deconstructing your identity feels like untangling a ball of knotted threads. You move forward slowly, get lost sometimes, but each step takes you closer to something more authentic. Maybe true identity, the one that’s entirely ours, isn’t a destination but a journey. A dance between who we are, who we’ve been, and who we aspire to be.

So, who are you? The answer might not come right away, and that’s okay. Maybe it’s not meant to be a single, fixed answer at all. Maybe it’s something we discover and rediscover over and over again, in the quiet moments when no one is watching and in the loud ones where we dare to be seen exactly as we are.