Reflection 3
On Reclaiming My Identity
In Norway, I found myself. Not the self shaped by pressure or performance, but the version of me I had almost forgotten existed; the parts of myself I didn’t even realize I had lost.
For so long, my identity was built around doing. Around being impressive. Around proving my worth through output: grades, research, publications, programs. I thought if I could just achieve enough, succeed enough, climb high enough, maybe then I’d feel like I was enough.
But I didn’t. I was tired. I was burned out. I was sick, literally and emotionally. I kept pushing anyway.
Then I moved to Norway. Not for a title, not for prestige, not because it was part of “The Plan,” but because it felt right. Because I needed something different. And there, without meaning to, I started becoming someone else.
It started slowly. A Thursday night concert. A sketch on my iPad instead of class notes. A quiet walk through the rain with nothing on my to-do list but to exist. These small moments grew into something more profound: a way of life that didn’t require me to earn my worth through constant output.
In Bergen, no one cared about my resume. No one asked about my GPA or my latest publication. When I struggled to keep up with the language, people were patient. When I stumbled through small talk, no one judged. My accomplishments didn’t precede me, and for once, I was grateful. It meant I got to be someone without needing to impress. And there, without meaning to, I started becoming someone else.
Someone quieter but more full. Someone softer but stronger. Someone who created for joy, not for an audience. I danced again. I drew. I sat in cafes and listened to conversations I couldn’t fully understand, and I didn’t panic. I paid attention. I felt present.
And in those quiet, unfamiliar days, I found the version of myself I hadn’t seen since I was a child. The version that existed before perfectionism. Before ambition consumed me. Before chronic illness and rejection and overwork shaped how I saw myself.
Coming back to Boston, that part of me began to disappear again. I’ve reverted to old habits. The pressure returned. The systems that reward burnout and overachievement returned. I am my research. I am my deadlines. I am productivity wrapped in a body that is constantly tired. I try to remember how it felt to live as a whole person, not just a mind attached to a machine. I still love what I do, but I miss who I was when I did it there.
Norway reminded me that I am more than what I produce. That I have value in the quiet, the creative, the incomplete. I fear I’ve lost that again, but maybe writing this is a way to find it.