I am almost twenty-two years old. I live in London with three other girls. I have a boyfriend whom I love. My family lives in New Jersey, where I grew up. I’m a middle child. I’m unsure what else I can say to describe myself; I’ve never been good at this icebreaker in class. I would usually say that I have a lot of animals, but right now, I have two cats and one dog.

I’m unsure how other people would describe me given the chance to do it anonymously, but when in front of me, people have said many different things. Some would describe me as shy or timid, while others would describe me as talkative. Some would describe me as judgmental or even bitchy, while others would describe me as particular. Some would describe me as insecure, while others would describe me as confident and sometimes conceited. Some would describe me as anxious, while others would describe me as polite or reserved. Some would describe me as stupid, while others would describe me as intelligent. All describe me as funny.

It’s honestly a coin toss; people see different sides of me and make their judgment, but only I know who I am. They describe what they perceive me as, which is hard to swallow, as I have no control over their perceptions.

When I think about all these labels, I think about how limiting they can be. My older sister, Lily, used to say, “I know you”. It was usually during a fight to help prove her point of why I said or did something. I hated that statement a lot. It felt like my family didn’t know me. I moved out and created a new life for myself. I changed. I would scream at her, telling her to stop saying that. It felt like she was putting me in a box, and I couldn’t exist outside her perception of me.

I think about my childhood, from when I was a baby to now, when I am almost twenty-two. There have been so many versions of me, and other people have seen each. Some of those versions have stayed with me, and some have vanished.

I found a video of me and my older sister a few years ago. My dad was filming on a camcorder; I was about three years old. It was Christmas morning, and we were opening presents. I was sitting on my new Dora foldable couch, with a glow-in-the-dark Care Bear beside me. I was utterly silent, with my arms crossed and my hair still messy from bed. If you listen closely to the video, you can hear my grandparents conversing in French about my presents; they were opening them for me. I reached for the Play-Doh set in front of me, my short arms unable to reach. I just stared off into the distance. My dad started to zoom the camcorder on my face, and he called my name. I looked at him and quickly looked down. I looked back up and stuck my tongue out at him, and then I pushed my chin out toward him. The camera moved past me and onto my older sister and mother. My older sister complained that she didn’t get what she asked for.

When I watch that video, part of me feels happy. I feel like I haven’t changed a bit. I was being very particular. I made my grandparents open my presents because I wanted to sit on my new couch with my new toy. But another part of me feels sad about the version of me featured in the video. In the video, I’m pretty reserved. But it almost feels like part of me isn’t present. I think about how strange it is that I was so young, opening presents on the best holiday, but still wasn’t present. I can see myself thinking and daydreaming. I don’t remember that day, and only have the video, so I won’t ever know what I was thinking about.

Maybe I was thinking about mermaids or the castle I would build with my new Play-Doh. Or I was thinking about how uncomfortable I am.

I’ve shown people that video, and most say it is “so me”, and it is. I think that’s why I feel happy and sad at the same time. I’m still like that every single Christmas. My facial expressions are minimal, I’m quiet, and I stack my gifts neatly and nicely next to me.

I like knowing that even back then, I was so particular and kept to myself. It gives me a sense of comfort, like I am still that little girl. But another part of me wonders how I became that way. I was three years old, and most three-year-olds I know are completely chaotic. But I was silent and crossed my arms while my thoughts ran around my brain.

I heard my parents talk about how I acted as a kid. That I was wild and messy and naughty and rebellious. I did what I wanted when I wanted and never thought about the consequences.

That is true, but other people were around when I remember those instances. Maybe I was so quiet in that video because it was just my family around me. My versions of myself may change depending on who I am around or with.

Sometimes I think back to when I was friends with certain people, and how differently I acted. I think back to when I was a kid, being wild. I didn’t care what people thought of me; that was never a thought of mine. It was just me, without all the anxiety or fear. I wish I had savoured that while it lasted because I don’t act like that anymore.

My biggest fear is being myself and someone hating me. I fear letting someone know me or see me. I fear letting people in. That doesn’t mean I don’t do it, but it’s uncomfortable and not my first choice for an activity. But, back then, I didn’t care about any of that.

Nostalgia is weird. My nostalgia doesn’t come from missing what I had or wanting to relive it. But I want to understand. I want to go back in time and talk to myself to see what was happening. Am I quiet and reserved, or did something happen to make me that way? Or am I just overthinking?

Is there a way to regain that childhood freedom? Can I be twenty-two years old and act like I did at 13? Can I become wild again? Can I stop caring what people think of me and just be myself all the time?

My therapist says yes, but I’m still working on it.