The Person I Thought I’d Be

My mom used to tell us, “Do the right thing, even if it puts you in the minority” and to “take the high road.” I used to find comfort in that because it made the world seem simple. It was like she was handing me a compass, and if I just followed it, I’d know exactly who I was supposed to be when the time came. I miss those days.

I miss when it seemed like the world made more sense. I miss not knowing that integrity often comes at a cost. I miss when I believed kindness would be met with kindness. I miss when I believed courage was contagious.

But, mostly…I miss when I was certain of who I would be when life tested my core values.

I think we all like to think we know who we would be or how we would react in certain situations. I thought I knew who I would be when presented with a moment to do the right thing regardless of the consequences.

I assumed I would be the person who would stand up and speak out against abuse, violence, corruption, and injustice in both my personal and professional life. I thought I would be the person who would advocate for those who didn’t have the ability or privilege. The one who initiated hard conversations instead of avoiding them. The one who chose integrity over comfort. The one who would risk being misunderstood if it meant protecting someone else. The one who would tell the truth. The person who would help rescue those in danger, not abandon them.

One of the harshest realizations in this life has been accepting that our laws, policies, and systems often fail the very people they’re supposed to protect. I’ve learned that speaking up rarely stays simple. It can feel too late, too little, too much, and someone usually pays for it. Sometimes it’s you. Sometimes it’s the relationship. And, painfully, it’s often the very person/people you’re trying to protect.

I used to think the hardest part of taking the high road was the surprise and disappointment of those not willing to walk it with you. Lately, though, it’s wondering if I’m even still on it.

For the last several years I thought my discomfort mostly came from watching the world. I’ve wondered how people could witness suffering and carry on as normal. How dishonesty has become easier than honesty. How protecting ourselves has become easier than protecting each other. How downplaying violence and corruption could become so common.

I’ve realized my discomfort isn’t only about the world. That’s only half the story. The other half is harder to say out loud. It’s about me. About what I have, and have not, been contributing to it.

Am I the person I always believed I was? Or did I simply love the story I told myself about who I’d be?

I started writing as a tool to create self-awareness, reflect, and process. I started sharing my writing as a way to pay it forward, hoping it might positively influence someone or create a meaningful connection. I’ve found myself questioning that.

The dissonance is heavy. I laugh with people I love. I make plans for the future. I still feel joy but also feel so much heartache, disbelief, and anger because just beyond my own little part of the world, people are living with incredible fear, experiencing injustice, loss, and preventable suffering.

Actions do speak louder than words. And I do take action in the ways I know how. I make choices that cost me. I say things that would be easier to leave unsaid. I try to live the values I claim to hold.

But I also write, which I believe is a form of action, but sometimes I wonder if I use it more than I should. Is it simply the version of action that asks the least of me? Sometimes I wonder if writing is courage or if it’s simply the safest place to put my convictions. Am I contributing to creating change or am I trying to ease my own conscience?

I don’t know.

I don’t know if I’m the person I believed I’d be. I don’t know if writing is courage or comfort. I don’t know if speaking up sometimes is enough.

Here’s what I do know: I want my life to stay aligned with the values I claim to hold, even when it’s uncomfortable, inconvenient, and costs me relationships. Doing the right thing is far more complicated than I believed when I was young and naïve, but I never want to stop questioning whether my actions match my convictions.

I also know taking the high road isn’t a declaration of moral superiority, it’s the cost of staying true to myself. It’s choosing short-term discomfort over long-term regret, and it’s knowing I can sleep at night with the choices I’ve made.

Maybe the real question isn’t whether I’ve become the person I thought I’d be. Maybe it’s whether I’m willing to keep doing the work — letting my words lead me toward meaningful action, and having the humility and honesty to admit when I’ve drifted off the high road and need to find my way back.