When the World Tries to Write Your Story for You
The world is quick to tell you who you are—often before you’ve had the chance to decide for yourself. Sometimes it starts early, before you even understand the words. It comes through the labels whispered in classrooms, the expectations set at family tables, the assumptions strangers make the moment they see your skin, hear your accent, or learn your name.
It will hand you a script already written—penned by fear, bias, and tradition—and expect you to perform it without hesitation. You’re told which parts you’re allowed to play, how loudly you can speak, how much space you can take up. And when you step off their stage, when you improvise, when you dare to rewrite, you’re told you’re difficult, ungrateful, or reckless.
I have learned to refuse these scripts. My story is not a hand-me-down. It is not a recycled narrative stitched together from other people’s fears. It is not a second draft written by someone else.
There was a time I tried to fit into the roles I was given. I smiled when I wanted to speak. I stayed quiet to avoid making waves. I let people believe a smaller version of me because it was easier than proving them wrong. But the truth is, living someone else’s version of your story is not living—it’s performing. And performing eventually drains the life right out of you.
Now, I write my story myself. In my own language. In my own time. I choose the words, the plot, the ending. I decide which characters stay and which ones exit stage left.
And I will not ask for permission. Because the most powerful thing we can do is claim authorship over our own lives—and live them so fully that no one else’s script could possibly contain us.
