Can You Be Many Things?
So, is having “multiple identities” an issue?
I’m no psychologist, and I don’t have any special credibility there, but when I was young, I always wanted to be a lot of different things. I loved being out in nature, just hanging out in the forest. That was a big reason I loved going to my grandparents’ place every summer.
I’d wake up, my grandma would hand me a hot cup of milk or herbal tea, and then I’d be off to the woods. I’d walk for hours—catching salamanders, hitting the pond to catch frogs, watching snakes hunt frogs—and sometimes I’d even catch one going after a tiny fish, all while suffering a couple of bee stings.
The forest always held this mystery, like something was hidden that I was destined to uncover. I thought about it every night before bed. That sense of wonder helped me sleep. I wanted to close my eyes and open them again feeling like only a second had passed—like I’d zipped across the universe through some wormhole or sci-fi shortcut.
Then the sun would be up, and I’d head out again. If you got lucky, you might spot some foxes, though they kept their distance. But mostly, I made a beeline for the water. That’s where everything was teeming with life—if you really took the time to look.
What We Do—and What We Don’t
I hear people say things like, “If only I’d done this,” or “I really shouldn’t have done that.” And yeah, I do it too.
Being in the forest wasn’t the only thing I wanted to do—or maybe it’s better to say, the only thing I wanted to be. We let what we do in life define us. But here’s the scarier part: we also let the things we didn’t do define us too. I think that second one is the most damaging sometimes.
I wanted to be so many things. First, an archaeologist. That never happened. Still, all the time I spent in nature—whether as a wide-eyed kid in the forest or years later free diving and spearfishing—felt like one big expedition, a treasure hunt that never really ended.
Later, I got obsessed with other things that excited me just as much. It didn’t make me love nature any less—it just gave me new quests to chase. One of them was the financial markets. It started when my uncle visited from Canada and talked about investing. I was hooked. I dove in, trying to crack the code.
What pulled me in, I think, was that nobody could explain it in a way that really made sense. It felt like another mystery. Kind of like God, to be honest—things working in ways you usually can’t explain, where the path from A to B is almost never a straight line. But sometimes I think I’m the guy who believes the “too good to be trues”—and that’s what kind of excites me to do certain things.
Chasing, Forgetting, Repeating
Of course, I’d get obsessed with one passion and then pretty much forget the last one. The cycle repeated. I guess writing this is just the latest spin of that wheel. I’m back to pouring my thoughts onto a page—something I used to do when I was younger, on scattered pieces of paper I’d hide under my bed, then lose forever—before I had any audience, before there was anywhere to share it.
When I look back—nature lover, diver, market junkie, reflective writer—none of it ever really paid the bills. So I had to find a more “practical” passion. That led me to aid and development work for years—not because I’m that noble person, but simply because that was the only job I could find back then, I guess.
But even that wasn’t enough. I started making investments in different countries. All failed. Spectacularly.
I’ve burned through all my savings multiple times. I went broke more than once. And weirdly, maybe I needed to be—to remember who I am, and more importantly, to reconnect with the identities I truly care about. Sometimes, the sense of achievement comes when you go from zero to something. I might have gotten addicted to that.
Why Do We Feel the Need to Be Just One Thing?
This isn’t really about me, or what I’ve been through, or why you should listen to me (short answer: you shouldn’t). It’s about this idea that people feel they have to be just one thing. To present themselves in this narrow, curated way that shaves off pieces of who they truly are—a being they’re embarrassed to reveal to the world because it doesn’t feel like “enough.”
When you describe yourself to the world, are you shaping it for them—or are you honoring who you actually are?
Can you be many things? And if so, should you be?
For me, I choose to be many things—shy, of course, but not embarrassed. I try to introduce myself that way, no matter what anyone makes of it. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking you need to be the best photographer to call yourself a photographer—or that you’ve got to be a successful entrepreneur to say, “I’m an entrepreneur.” You don’t owe anyone an explanation. And they don’t owe you one either. And mostly, they don’t care.
What Are We Really Chasing?
I get it. Narrowing your focus gives you a better shot at getting good at something people value. We’re social animals. We crave validation, acceptance—just enough to feel like we exist and matter. That feeling of being seen boosts our chances of survival, mentally and physically.
But in focusing so much on survival, are we missing everything else?
Sometimes I wonder if trading a decade or two of my life to be less “survivable” but happier—at least in whatever time the universe allows me to live—is actually a great return on investment.
But it boils down to this question:
Are we shrinking the universe of possibilities down to just a few things we hope to master?
Lately, I don’t even know if I want to excel at anything anymore.
Can we just be, without constantly trying to be the best?
Can we be accepted for who we are—and also for who we aren’t?
Permission to Be Many Things
Maybe we end up spread too thin. Maybe we’re not really “seen,” not filling any specific space, physically or spiritually. But can we still be content like that? Happy, even?
Happy with not “achieving” anything in the conventional sense?
Happy with no external payout—just because what we did wasn’t “good enough” for the world, even if it was good enough for us?
For me, the greatest payout might just be this:
Giving myself permission to chase all those endless possibilities.
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