My First Farewell is to Myself: Discovering the Tension Between Who I Want to Be and Who I Am

The number one rule for making friends is to share as much as you can about yourself as quickly as possible. At least, that’s what I believed at fifteen. 

“We went rappelling at the Grand Canyon last week,” one boy shared at a summer camp where making friends was steadily becoming harder than I thought. 

I inserted myself in the group discussion, jumping for their approval, “That’s so cool! I just went rappelling in Australia a couple months ago and let me tell you, it was so fun–” I kept talking. I thought that if I just kept going, one of the things I’d say would connect with someone. I didn’t register the way people glanced at each other with raised eyebrows, the way the conversation ended weirdly quickly after I’d contributed. 

“Australia, huh?” Someone said, something like a smirk on their lips as they turned away. 

Undeterred, I tried again with different people, convinced that I’d just been talking to a weird group. In a game where we had to make nicknames for our group members, I committed fully, coming up with nicknames for each member related to what they shared. Volleyball, a funny story about a bird, a love for running, I came up with all of them. When it was my turn, I was more than excited to get a nickname of my own. Getting one signified that I had done it right, that I was “in.” I launched into my love for superheroes, my position in basketball, my favorite football team, my residence in Singapore– 

One of the girls stopped me there, holding up a hand to cut me off. “Oh, Singapore! We’ll just call you that. I can’t remember anything else about you.” The rest of the group nodded in agreement, some of them laughing.

And so my name was Singapore for the next week, because they couldn’t remember my actual name.

It hurt. I couldn’t understand why over and over people decided I was not worth being known beyond where I lived. I knew I was more than just where I’d been. But somewhere along the way, I learned that something about me was wrong. I was labeled “entitled” when I told my friends what countries I’d visited. I was left on the dance floor after saying my hobby was reading classic literature. And in many conversations, questions stopped, awkward smiles and goodbyes ensued, and rejection became more of a friend to me than the people I was trying to befriend. 

So I changed. Or rather, I made the decision to say farewell to the things that made me wrong. 

After six years at SAS and two months until graduation, I figured it was a little too late to change here. But once college started in the fall, I knew exactly who I wanted to be once I arrived: nobody. I named this nobody my Ideal Self; a version of me that kept her passions to herself, that didn’t jump into conversations to talk about Australia, and who remained reserved and thoughtful at all times. I planned to undergo a major transformation, one so drastic I couldn’t be rejected again. 

I reached out to someone who was going to my college in the fall, trying to test this Ideal Self’s ability to make friends. Our conversation flowed easily as I utilized the rules of my Ideal Self–no oversharing, answering questions thoughtfully, having normal hobbies–and we got along well until the innocent question arrived. Do you travel a lot?

My thumbs hovered over the keyboard uncertainly. The answer should’ve been simple. Yes, I travel a lot. In fact, my parents love going to new places so much that when I’m not at school my friends just assume I’m in a different country. 

But I imagined what her response would be if I said that. She’d ask where I’d traveled before, and when I told her it was because of where I lived, suddenly I wouldn’t be my Ideal Self, but I’d be “Singapore.” I didn’t want to relive the feeling of standing in a crowd of people who should know my name and didn’t, relive knowing that their side glances and laughter were aimed at me. I wouldn’t, couldn’t risk the possibility of mockery again, of rejection.

So I typed an answer just vague enough: I’d say so. I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction as I felt the new pieces of Ideal Self falling into place. I had successfully danced around what could’ve been a messy conversation. I had dodged rejection. But the satisfied feeling faded just as quickly as it had arrived. The pieces weren’t clicking into place how I’d imagined, instead coming together to create a feeling that I was betraying myself. Saying farewell to who I was didn’t feel as good as I thought.  

This feeling created an uncomfortable back and forth. I thought that stepping into the role of my Ideal Self meant I would feel like my Ideal Self–confident, reserved, in control. Instead, I found myself staring at my phone and asking if avoiding rejection to the point I betray myself was as worth it as I wanted to believe. 

My concept of identity is now riddled with questions. Is where I’ve been or what I’ve done “who I am”? Why does being labeled “Singapore” bother me so much? How much of myself am I willing to lose in the process of becoming my Ideal Self? Is that loss worthwhile? And I don’t have an answer to any of these questions, not really. I don’t know if saying farewell to who I am now is growth or loss. So perhaps I’ll arrive at college in the fall and resort to my old self and I’ll be okay with the rejection. Perhaps I’ll become my Ideal Self and the loss that comes with it will be worth it. Or maybe, hopefully, I’ll learn how to balance the two, and maybe I’ll even realize that who I am–loud, passionate, slightly confused–is okay as is. 

Wouldn’t that be funny?