Uncharted
It took me a while to realise it, but I am the best audience for the storyteller in me. The man in the front seat with a lifetime ticket. Some of my stories are true, Some imaginary, Some relayed to conjure confidence. Some, to wallow in self indulgence and pity.
Some, to just paint an image which I find appealing.
This realisation fascinated me when I became aware of it. But the bigger realisation was that it was not just me. It was everyone around me as well.
The narratives we construct, carefully curated like a museum exhibit of our best selves. Most days they work. But what happens when the exhibit doesn't match the archive?
What happens when it creeps up in small things? Like when I say I’ll be brief, but speak aimlessly for 20 minutes.Or when I insist I'm always punctual, yet my friends have learned to tell me an earlier meeting time. Or when I adjust my answer and become diplomatic , because my choice is less mainstream.
There's a line from Joan Didion - “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” But sometimes, I wonder if those stories truly keep us from living. I catch myself in these moments of dissonance. It's not that I'm trying to deceive; it's that the story I want to be true has overwritten the reality. For years I convinced myself that arthouse cinema was the only thing worth watching. It was my intellectual self over-intellectualising my crafted persona. Deep inside though I was fine with some slapstick comedy from time to time. The laughs were not bad.
And today I am better off accepting this.
There's a peculiar ache that comes with realising you're not who you thought you were. It's like waking up in a familiar room, only to find all the furniture has been subtly rearranged while you slept. The careful cartography of identity, where we plot our strengths, our quirks, our immovable traits. “Here be dragons,” we scrawl across the areas we'd rather not explore.
But what happens when we stumble into those uncharted territories?
In reality, it is this gap between our idealised self and our actual self, where the real work happens. It's uncomfortable, like trying to wear shoes a size too small. We can pretend they fit for a while, but eventually, the blisters force us to confront the truth.
Like the author Brené Brown said: “Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we're supposed to be and embracing who we are.” It sounds simple, doesn't it? But it's a daily practice for a reason. It's hard. It's constant. It's necessary.’
We craft these elaborate personas. Like method actors who've forgotten they're in a play. We become so invested in our self-image that when reality contradicts it, we're left reeling, unsure of which version is the truth. It's terrifying, this process of rediscovery. Like stepping off the edge of our personal flat earth and finding that the world is round after all. But there's exhilaration in it too. A wild sort of freedom in realising that we're not bound by the limits we've placed on ourselves.
I'm learning that growth isn't always about becoming more of who we think we are. Sometimes, it's about unbecoming. Stripping away the layers of expectation and assumption until we're left with something raw and real. The unwritten script of our lives is messy, boring, sometimes it's downright disappointing. But it's real. And there's a peculiar kind of freedom in embracing that reality.
The idea of me was not me. But maybe my core, in all its imperfect glory, is exactly what I need to be exploring. The truest version of me isn't a fixed point to be reached, but a constant exploration. A willingness to redraw the map again and again, to sail into uncharted waters and discover new lands within my periphery.
I'm learning to listen to these whispers. The ones that don't always align with my carefully constructed persona. It's a bit like tuning an old radio, adjusting the dial until the static clears and the true signal comes through. And sometimes it’s not that cool, but if I am being entirely honest I enjoy tinkering with it a lot more than the manicured version I was so enamoured with.
It needed acceptance.
Rebecca Solnit said, “Leave the door open for the unknown, the door into the dark. That's where the most important things come from, where you yourself came from, and where you will go.”
So here I am, standing at that open door, peering into the darkness of my own uncharted self. It's uncomfortable. It's uncertain. It’s clumsy and messy. But it's also thrilling. Because who knows what undiscovered continents of identity lie waiting beyond the edge of the map?
And frankly now that I have a little less hair and need glasses to read, this journey is worth undertaking