When I was young, I studied at a music conservatory. This was a school for people who wanted to pursue music seriously. I was there for the experience and maybe, just maybe, because I could see my future in it. But then I saw peers around me as young as 11 practicing their instrument 3 hours at night, fully devoting their life to this craft every day, and I knew that I could never be like them.

When I was in high school, I believed that if I studied and worked hard, I would know what I wanted to do. That I would eventually find my craft and all would make sense in the world. But a few careers and countless hobbies later, I find myself back where I started; committing to anything beyond a few years feels like imprisonment, so I leave before I'm trapped. It’s not just about doing the same thing, but also the act of going to the same place, seeing the same people, that irks me. I genuinely can’t fathom how people can devote themselves to a craft for longer than a few years.

I feel this way about all aspects of my life. Like I'm cycling through different lives, shedding one every few years to make room for the next.

Nowhere feels like home. Not the place I grew up. Not the place I was born in. Not the place I found myself in. Every place feels like a part of me, none all of me. Some harbor too many painful memories. Others offer too little to build on. Most demand the exhausting work of building a life from scratch, knowing full well I'll dismantle it within a few years.

It’s not just my home. Anything and anywhere that becomes a second home—be it a job or a hobby—soon starts to feel like confinement. It’s like I’m screaming at the universe how dare you confine me to these four walls? And I must immediately leave whatever it is I have devoted myself to and start anew.

But maybe my search for purpose is my home. My not knowing where I want to be 5 years from now is the purpose. My not having a home is the point. I spent most of my youth building towards a traditionally successful life, and now most of my adulthood undoing that belief.

Some days, I really just want to disappear and live a quiet life. Mute all the noise that continues to pull me in from all directions and live a life without purpose—trying out new things, listening to my intuition, and committing to none.

“Did you just purchase from XXX store?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Come here. We offer a free facial to customers of XXX.”

As a skincare lover, I strolled over without a thought. I glanced at the coupon. Eight steps. Free. Before I realized it, I was walking toward the facial area, already deep in conversation.

He asked about my skincare routine. My concerns. Then he introduced me to three products: a peeling mask, a clay mask, and an exfoliating scrub.

Each one went on my palm first, then my face. He applied them while asking me questions. They were rapid-fire, intimate, and relentless. The kind of questions you want to ask, and feel compelled to ask, at a speed dating event where you’re racing the clock to find your match.

What’s your name? How old are you? Where do you live? Where are you from? What do you do for work? What does your family do? Do you like what you do? What do you really do? What skincare brands do you use? Do you party with your friends?

As I stared at myself in the mirror, I felt like one of those harmless-looking girls who get flagged down precisely because they look harmless. I also have a hard time saying no. And lying. I always think they can read my mind when I’m lying. What if I run into him again and he realizes I lied?

At the end of the facial, he brought out the two products I had liked most. The price made my jaw drop. I watched his friendliness crack as he started citing deals: a free product, an employee discount, and a special price just for today.

After the fourth no, he disappeared into the backroom to return the items.

I bolted, embarrassed for having wasted his time. For knowing what I was getting myself into and letting it go on for too long. A feeling I was all too familiar with.

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It was déjà vu from when I lived in Taiwan: the same tactic (starting a conversation from the ice skating bag I was carrying), same product category (luxury skincare), and spending way too much time in sweet conversation with a man I found hard to exit.

This man was really intent on learning how long I’d been skating, how much I liked it, where I was from, and whether we could go skating together sometime — even after I’d rejected his sales pitch and was already out the door. Was he just a really good salesman, or a man comfortable crossing the boundary between business and personal life?

I mean, at what point does persuasion turn into coercion, and where the heck was my agency in all of this?

I am good at saying no when the question is posed. I can rip the bandaid off, easy. What I’m bad at is leaving before the question is posed, when we’re both pretending the conversation is about my really interesting life, when really it’s all about that commission. How dare I say no after I wasted his time for the last 40 minutes? Shame on me!

I remember another time when I joined a gym, the trainers would approach me under the guise of friendliness and avoid my eyes as soon as I made it clear the third time that I wasn’t going to hire them now or ever. I don’t blame them. But I also remember that yoga studio that was independently run by women for women (mostly). No sales pitch, join as you wish, come as you go. I loved that place.

It makes me wonder if high-pressure sales tactics are inevitable byproducts of capitalistic growth. The stakes are higher, the script is there, and we all know that growth is good and the opposite is alarm bells. After all, those dictating the sales pitch sit behind computers, chasing KPIs and the approval of higher management.

My weakness is empathizing with “they’re just doing their job.” I’ve been behind that desk too. But as soft as I may appear, I know there’s nothing worse than having buyer’s remorse for wanting to please a man who was just doing his job.

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Looking even further back, I feel like this pattern has consistently dominated my life.

When a religious cult approached me in college and kept me talking for half an hour while filling out a “questionnaire” for university. I gave them my name, age, phone number, major, email, religious affiliation, etc. They called and texted me to get me to attend one of their meetings. I almost did, but then I started dating a boy and promptly ghosted them.

When I was in a relationship with aforementioned boy and he was more experienced and I was very much not, he was somehow able to coax me into doing things he knew I was not okay with and somehow convince me it was okay in the moment because he “did it like that with his ex all the time,” and somehow I let it slide for one too many times before I broke it off.

When I got my first big girl job and wholeheartedly believed my boss when he said we were building the greatest thing on earth and worked overtime to fulfill that dream. Because who doesn’t want to believe their work is the greatest purpose of their life?

Sometimes, it was nothing. Other times, it was a gut feeling that made me leave long before I could put into words.

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧

Eventually, I have left all the institutions that made me feel any ounce of guilt for being there. Anything that creates dissonance—jobs, relationships, friendships, beliefs—feels wrong to keep in my life, even if it started out as my choice. Everyone is selling something, and if I don’t vibe with it, I’m out.

And yet, here I am.

With this post, I’m selling you an idea. With my content, I’m selling you my brand. I’m also the salesperson flagging down a stranger, hoping they’ll stop and hear me out for 40 minutes. And was I ever as innocent as I made myself seem? I voluntarily stepped through the door in all those situations, they just held out their hand and walked me in.

Maybe I’m just the next dead sea skincare salesperson in the making.

⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧

I think I just wanted to belong and be accepted. To be part of something bigger than myself. A person, a group, an organization, a God I chose and who chose me back. But as I’ve gotten older and become more protective of my space, I have grown more aware of how walking through a mall with an open heart can invite unspoken contracts.

Some doors are better left unopened.

I act like I have done terrible things in life and have a dark past to hide. Some of them were things that happened to me, others were things that I could have avoided had I been more discerning, and all of them get ruminated a hundred times over because “I should have known better.”

Being mocked in front of my peers and not realizing just how utterly humiliating it was until much later.
Pursuing something I was “supposed” to do for years and being unable to shake the undeniable feeling of imposter syndrome.
Devoting myself to a job only to be accused of doing something I did not do and losing my career spark altogether.
Being betrayed after trusting someone with sensitive information and losing trust in my own judgment.

None of them were terrible. I’m sure everyone goes through events like this at some point in their lives. Most repent and learn from them. Objectively, these are tests put forth to question my path and live life more authentically. They’re important in building character. But at a personal, emotional level, they have made me retreat further into my cave where no one can hurt me.

At my core, I am ashamed of who I am. Of all the mistakes I have made and the mistakes I have yet to make. Of wanting to pursue life on my own terms but always being a closeted ____ until I feel like I am good enough to declare it publicly — which has not happened in forever, of course. Why can I respect and admire others who do the same, but look down on myself at any attempt to be that person?

This is the recurring theme in my life, in all my journal entries and inner monologues.

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From the beginning, I knew I wanted to be anonymous.

It wasn’t that I feared accidentally posting something that would get me eternally cancelled, as we see happen every so often. It was the fear of the opposite — that I would be cancelled in real life, and that the internet would become the only place I could turn to.

But the internet is only safe if it remains separate from my real life.

And so I found myself in a self-imposed severance — except my innie and outie are fully aware of each other’s existence, co-conspirators ensuring that everyone else stays severed. What is this life that I have created?

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧

As I sat with the idea of expanding into long-form videos (again) and blogging (again), I questioned my choices once more.

An anonymous online presence means I can disappear when I want, whenever I want. I don’t owe anyone an explanation, especially since you don’t know me in real life. At least, that’s what I tell myself when the insecurities take over and everything collapses into tunnel vision.

Need to disappear for a bit to venture down a completely new path I don’t want anyone to know? Pretend I don’t exist online and leave.

Need to step away for an indeterminate amount of time to sit with my own feelings? Delete the apps and touch grass.

As someone who grew up anxiously attached to those around me, I may be the most avoidant person I know. It’s like blocking the person that displeased you, except that instead of selectively blocking someone else, I am blocking myself from the world. Genius.

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Did I ever think I would be in my late 20s trauma-dumping on the internet as a coping mechanism and creative outlet? No. But one thing I promised myself when I started posting online was that I would be unapologetically myself.

As cringey as it still feels to be and express who I am — if not here, then where?