That if I let people see everything, my thoughts, my fears, my plans, they would handle me more gently. As if transparency earned protection.

What I didn't realise was how quickly openness turns into familiarity and how easily familiarity turns into definition. The more people think they know you, the more comfortable they become deciding who you are. And once you're defined in someone else's mind, you stop being allowed contradictions. You turn into a fixed idea.

The one who overthinks. The one who's too ambitious. The one who talks too much about her dreams.

Labels are neat. People love them. They make others easier to deal with. But once they stick, they're almost impossible to shake. Suddenly, you're no longer just living; you're performing inside other people's narratives, whether you agreed to them or not. You're not reacting as a person anymore; you're just confirming something they already believe. And the more people think they know you, the less room there is for you to change.

This realisation hit harder when I stepped out of school and into the outside world.

School, for all its chaos, had structure. Roles were prewritten. You knew who you were supposed to be — a student, a topper, the quiet one, the talkative one. Outside of it, there are no bells, no reassurance that you're doing "enough." Everyone is moving at different speeds, in different directions and somehow you're expected to sound confident about your own path while still figuring out what the path even is.

Preparing for CA does something strange to you, especially if you're a people person.

Your life gets quieter by necessity. Fewer conversations. Fewer places to be. Less room to be loud or spontaneous. It's not that I stopped being sociable, it's that this phase asks me to turn the volume down. To keep my spark contained while I focus on something that needs patience more than personality. And some days, that adjustment is harder than the studying itself.

Life becomes repetitive and inward. Discipline on the outside. Noise on the inside. You're expected to be focused, unbothered and ambitious while quietly carrying the question of what if this doesn't work?

I don't always talk about that part.

About how heavy it feels always to be composed. About how lonely it can get when your world keeps shrinking on purpose. About how sometimes I wish someone would notice the effort without me having to explain it.

I'm avoidant by nature — hyper-independent by survival.

I learned early that relying on myself felt safer than hoping someone else would show up. Independence became my shield, my identity, my excuse. I told myself I didn't need help. I worked better alone. That distance was maturity.

But hyper-independence isn't always a strength. Sometimes it's just unprocessed fear wearing a disciplined face.

Ironically, after years of saying too much, I've learned to say less. Not because I've shut down, but because I've learned that privacy is a form of self-respect. You don't owe everyone access to your inner world just because you're capable of articulating it.

I'm still learning how to exist outside labels, outside being the serious one, the ambitious one, the independent one. I want room to change my mind. To contradict myself. To grow without an audience keeping score.

Maybe adulthood isn't about being fully figured out. Maybe it's just about knowing what parts of yourself you're allowed to keep for yourself.

And maybe that's why I'm here, writing this.

Letting my thoughts exist somewhere without needing to solidify into conclusions. Using this space the way I'm learning to use life — as a place where I can be more than one version of myself. Where things are allowed to be unfinished and in motion.

I don't want to define myself here. I just want to let myself be.