Every day I put on the same version of myself.
Focused. Chill. Normal.
I walk into school already knowing my role. I know when to laugh, when to stay quiet, when to raise my hand and when not to. I know how to act like I’m paying attention even when my mind is somewhere else. It feels like muscle memory at this point, something I do without thinking.
No one sees how many times I rewrite texts before sending them, wondering if I sound weird or annoying or too much. No one sees how carefully I choose my words in class, making sure I don’t stand out in the wrong way. I’ve learned how to blend in, how to seem okay.
At night, the performance doesn’t end right away. My thoughts get louder when everything else is quiet. I replay conversations, worry about things I should’ve said differently, imagine how people see me when I’m not around. I tell myself to stop overthinking, but it doesn’t work.
Teachers talk about participation and effort like they’re simple things. But effort, for me, looks like holding it together. Like smiling when I’m tired. Like staying composed when my brain won’t slow down. It’s exhausting to be “on” all the time.
Sometimes I wonder who I’d be if I didn’t have to perform. If I could show up without a script. If I could say “I’m not okay” without feeling like I’d mess something up. I wonder what parts of me are real and which ones I built just to survive school.
I play my role well. Most days, no one questions it. But I’m starting to realize that being good at performing doesn’t mean I’m being honest. And I’m still trying to figure out how to stop acting long enough to just be myself.
