I stepped into the elevator this morning. Alone. I caught my reflection in the metal wall. Relaxed face. Slouched shoulders. The real me. Or one version of the real me.
The elevator stopped at floor five. My boss got in.
Something changed. I felt it happen. My shoulders straightened. My smile appeared. My voice, when I said good morning, was higher than usual. Eager. Polite. A different person had taken over my body.
This happens all the time. To all of us. We change depending on who we’re with. We become different people for different audiences.
Is this fake? I used to think so. Now I’m not sure.
Yesterday I had lunch with my college friends. We laughed loudly. Made inappropriate jokes. Used words I would never use at work. I was twenty years old again. Careless. Silly. Free.
In the evening, I visited my grandmother. I sat with my hands folded. Spoke softly. Used respectful words. Listened more than I talked. I was a good grandson. Careful. Proper. Quiet.
Both versions were me. Completely me. But they would not recognize each other.
I have noticed this about myself for years. There is the me who talks to my mother on the phone. Patient. Agreeable. Never arguing. There is the me who talks to my younger brother. Bossy. Opinionated. Always right.
There is the me at work. Professional. Measured. Thinking before speaking. There is the me with my best friend. Stupid. Honest. Saying whatever comes to mind.
Which one is real?
Maybe all of them. Maybe none of them.
I read somewhere that our voice changes pitch depending on who we’re talking to. With authority figures, it goes higher. Seeking approval. With people we protect, it goes lower. Warmer. Softer. This happens without our control. Our bodies adjust before our minds even notice.
We are tuning ourselves. Like radios. Finding the right frequency for each person.
My friend Karim is the funniest person I know. When we’re together, he makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. Last month, I saw him at a wedding, talking to his father-in-law. He was someone else. Serious. Respectful. Almost boring.
I walked up to him later. “That wasn’t you,” I said.
He shrugged. “That was also me. Just a different channel.”
I like that. Different channels. Same person, different broadcasts.
The exhausting part is switching. Some days, I talk to ten different people. Ten different versions of myself. By evening, I am tired in a way that has nothing to do with physical work. My personality muscles are sore.
Work is the worst. There, you need many versions running at once. The confident version for presentations. The humble version for feedback. The friendly version for colleagues. The careful version for emails. One wrong version at the wrong time, and things go badly.
I know a woman who is a terror at work. Sharp. Demanding. Makes people nervous. Then I saw her with her daughter. Gentle. Silly. Making animal sounds. Playing pretend. I almost didn’t recognize her.
“How do you switch so fast?” I asked.
She looked confused. “Switch what?”
She didn’t even notice. The change was so natural, so automatic, that it felt like nothing.
Maybe that’s the secret. The switching isn’t a problem. It’s a skill. We are designed to do this. Our ancestors needed different selves for different situations. One self for hunting. Another for family. Another for strangers. Survival required flexibility.
We inherited this software. It runs without our permission.
The strange moments come when worlds collide. When your work friends meet your childhood friends. When your family meets your partner. Suddenly, different versions of you exist in the same room. You don’t know which one to be. You feel exposed. Like a magician whose tricks have been revealed.
I once brought my college roommate to a family dinner. He kept looking at me strangely. Later he said, “You’re so different with them. So quiet. So polite.”
I didn’t know what to say. He was right. But I wasn’t pretending with either of them. I was just being the version that fit.
Social media makes this worse. Or maybe it makes it visible. We have different accounts for different audiences. Different posts for different people. The professional version here. The funny version there. The political version somewhere else.
We curate ourselves. Edit ourselves. Publish different editions for different readers.
This sounds exhausting. It is. But it’s also beautiful, in a way.
We are not simple creatures. We contain multitudes. The person who makes you laugh is also the person who can make you cry. The one who is strong in crisis is also the one who falls apart over small things. We are walking contradictions. And that’s okay.
I think the mistake is believing there should be one true self. One authentic version that we hide from everyone. The real me, locked away, waiting to be discovered.
What if there is no locked room? What if all the versions are equally real? What if the self is not a statue but a river, constantly changing shape depending on what it flows around?
My grandmother sees a grandson. My boss sees an employee. My friend sees a companion. My daughter sees a father. They are all seeing me. Just different parts. Different angles.
No one person can see the whole thing. Not even me.
This used to bother me. Now it feels like freedom. I don’t have to be one thing. I don’t have to be consistent. I can be serious here and silly there. Strong in this room and weak in that one. Different people bring out different parts of me. That’s not fakeness. That’s richness.
The elevator reaches my floor. I step out. The work version of me takes over. Walks a certain way. Talks a certain way. Thinks certain thoughts.
Somewhere inside, other versions wait. The father. The friend. The grandson. The fool. They’ll get their turn. They always do.
We are many people living in one body. Having one name. Answering to one face in the mirror.
What a strange and wonderful thing it is to be human.
We change for everyone. And somehow, through all that changing, we remain ourselves.
How? I don’t know.
But I’ve stopped asking. Some mysteries are better lived than solved.
Tonight I’ll go home. Become a different person. Tomorrow I’ll come back. Become this one again.
The dance continues. The channels keep switching.
And somewhere in between all these versions, something remains constant. Something I can’t name but can feel.
Maybe that’s the real me.
Or maybe there’s no such thing.
Either way, I’m okay with it now.