Becoming Unrecognizable
...a study in reinvention, self-delusion, and the reality of becoming yourself.
They say you should become unrecognizable. Take some time off. Cut your hair. Move to a new city where nobody knows that in 2016 you sent a risky text to the wrong group chat and have yet to recover emotionally. Reinvent yourself into a version of you that exudes poise, quiet intrigue and the ability to wear white linen without immediately spilling coffee on it. The kind of person who radiates the sort of effortless glow that suggests both financial stability and a deep personal relationship with her gut microbiome. Develop an air of mystery so potent that even people who used to ignore your Instagram stories are suddenly intrigued.
Then, and only then, return to your old life like the lead in a high-budget sequel—polished, enigmatic, and arriving at a party just late enough to seem interesting. Ideally, someone gasps, clutches their drink, and murmurs, “Oh my God… is that her?”
As if the entire purpose of existing is to execute the perfect dramatic entrance at someone else’s buffet.
I’ve attempted reinvention before. More than once, if we’re being honest. The ‘New Year, New Me’ initiatives. The skincare routines that required both a PhD and a financial advisor to maintain. The juice cleanses that left me crying into a breadstick. The hobbies I pursued aggressively for three weeks—pottery, roller skating, an attempt at learning Italian that mostly resulted in being bullied by the owl on Duolingo.
I’m a serial reinventor, a woman who’s spent an alarming amount of money on the idea that one day I might walk into a room and feel different.
The theory was that if I changed enough external things, something internal would shift too. That if I just acted like the kind of person who had their life together, eventually I would become one.
And so, I set out on a journey of transformation. I bought a yoga mat I never unrolled. I downloaded meditation apps that stressed me out with their notifications. I subscribed to a lifestyle—one that promised to turn me into a better, sleeker version of myself, preferably with dewy skin and an extensive collection of matching loungewear.
I did everything right.
And yet…
No one noticed.
Not a single soul.
No one gasped in awe when I reemerged from my three-month experiment in wellness. No one clutched their chest at the sight of my slightly improved posture. I spent four entire weeks drinking green sludge, waiting for the moment when people would say, “You’re glowing! You look so different!”
But the only comment I got was from a friend, who squinted at me through FaceTime and said, “Are you tired?”
That was the moment I realized: The world is too busy worrying about its own existential crises to care about my attempts to become a mysterious, linen-clad goddess.
And so, I have decided: It’s not about becoming unrecognizable to others. It’s about finally seeing myself clearly—without the noise, the pressure, or the overpriced serums that promised to fix my life.
The truth is, we’re all weighed down by versions of ourselves that were built in response to things that don’t actually belong to us.
Bad advice.
Bad relationships.
Bad lighting.
Other people’s expectations, their unsolicited opinions, their casual, offhanded comments that burrow into our subconscious like particularly aggressive termites. And when you live long enough trying to squeeze yourself into a mold that wasn’t designed for you, one day you wake up and realize—you don’t even know if you like the person you’ve been playing.
For me, that was the real crisis. Not that people weren’t recognizing my transformation—but that I wasn’t recognizing myself.
So, I stopped trying to be a dramatic before-and-after photo. I let go of the fantasy that reinvention needed to be a spectacle. Instead of becoming someone new, I started asking myself who I was without all the noise.
Here’s a few things I found:
I do not, in fact, enjoy salad. I’ve spent years pretending I do, but in reality, I like the idea of salad more than the actual experience of eating it. I like saying I ate salad. I like the aesthetic of salad. I like ordering a salad and feeling momentarily superior, as if I’m the kind of person who genuinely craves roughage. But when it’s sitting in front of me? I am deeply, profoundly aware that I would rather be eating bread.
I’m done with clothes that are uncomfortable but “flattering.” You know what’s actually flattering? Being able to breathe in your jeans.
I no longer engage with surface-level people. I used to think that was just how the world worked—small talk, polite nods, emotionally vague friendships that exist only to discuss the weather and pretend everything is fine. But I’m too old—or, let’s be real, too young—to keep muddying around in the shallow end of life. Life is heavy. It’s emotional. It’s happy and sad and everything in between. Let’s just fucking talk about it. If you’re uncomfortable with that, I am no longer interested in making you comfortable.
I no longer force myself to finish books I’m not enjoying. Life is short. Too short to pretend I’m intellectually engaged when I’m, in fact, dying of boredom.
I’m done pretending my dog isn’t my child. Who feeds him? Me. Who takes him to the vet? Me. Who is he happiest to see? Me. As far as I’m concerned, I birthed this fluffy little baby, and if someone has a problem with that, they can take it up with him. (They won’t win. He’s very persuasive.)
These sound like small things, but they add up. The list is endless, honestly. Because at some point, you realize that the self you were chasing—the one you thought you had to become—was built on someone else’s definition of what a person should be.
And when you strip all of that away, when you let go of the performance, what’s left is the same you, just with fewer delusions and a much lower tolerance for bullshit.
And yet, for so long, I thought that was the goal—to become unrecognizable, not just for myself, but because I assumed there was somewhere I was supposed to fit. Like if I optimized myself enough, I’d finally land in the right life, surrounded by the right people, doing the right things. But there is no club, no perfectly curated version of life where all the ‘figured out’ people are waiting for you to catch up. There’s nowhere to fit. You already do. Just exist, and you fit.
Reinvention does happen. But not in the way we think. It’s not a dramatic reveal where you step out of the shadows in slow motion while the people who once underestimated you look on in shock. No. Real reinvention is messier, less photogenic. It happens when you’re sitting alone in your car, eating drive-thru fries, realizing that maybe the person you’ve been waiting to become has been there the whole time.
Not glowing. Not transformed. Just there, trying to get the ketchup out of the cupholder.
This isn’t about becoming someone else—it’s about clearing out the bullshit until you land on something that actually makes sense. You don’t do it once and call it a day. You don’t wake up one morning with the perfect morning routine and an unshakable sense of self, never to question your existence again. No, you keep doing it—again and again. Because reinvention isn’t a single act; it’s a series of course corrections, some intentional, some chaotic, all equally valid.
One year, you think you’ve finally figured out how to be a person, and the next, you’re staring down at a half-eaten salad, wondering why you still haven’t learned your lesson. One day, you decide you’re done with surface-level friendships, and the next, you catch yourself trapped in a conversation with someone passionately explaining their ‘morning grind’ routine like it’s a TED Talk. You grow, you shed, you pivot, you pick things up, you put them back down. It’s a process. It’s allowed to be a mess. Frankly, it’d be suspicious if it weren’t.
Reinvention isn’t a grand transformation—it’s just what happens when you stop pretending you’re something you’re not. And if that means you change your mind a few more times before you get it right? Fine. As long as you’re the one making the call.
So no, there’s no big reveal. No third-act twist. Just me, showing up—messy, honest, and, against all odds, completely fine with it.
And if you don’t recognize me?
That’s fine. It’s also kind of the point.
Because for the first time, I finally do.
File Under: ‘Reinvention, Minus the Dramatic Reveal.’
—The Ash Files—Where life’s unexpected moments get filed away—sometimes neatly, sometimes under “figure it out later.” From writer/creator ASH, expect weekly musings, honest stories, and a reminder that no one has life entirely figured out [least of all me].✨
This brings back to me a quote I read a few years back. "The person who enjoys walking will walk further than the person who enjoys the destination." I completely agree that life is a process. It's like a load of side quests, if you are anything like me, you maybe still struggling to identify the main quest. Perhaps there isn't one 🤔. I have read many "life" , philosophy, self help books. Your writing is different, more honest, more useable. Thanks
Love this, Ash. It screams “you need to reflect on what you believe in”. ‘Cause maybe I was operating on someone else’s idea of ‘best version of myself’.
It’s very timely as well because for the past few years, I’ve been focusing on ‘becoming’, and as I go through it, I feel like it’s an endless pursuit that I am not even sure if it aligns with what I truly desire. So, my focus right now is to just be. Instead of becoming, focus on being.