I Googled Myself
A couple of days ago, I Googled myself. Just to see what comes up. The top result was my blog with some specific links Google thought most relevant for me. Then came my LinkedIn profile. Followed by some photos of me. A dead link to the Facebook page I’ve since deleted. My researchgate profile. And then my socials; YouTube, Pinterest, Instagram. I scrolled up and down twice looking at Google’s summary of me – the words, the emojis, the links that popped up – only to start chuckling in disbelief, thinking “This is so not me. I mean. This person is COOL!! I want to be friends with HER!!!”
Now, can you please read that sentence back and realise how ABSURD that is?? Because that’s what occurred to me shortly after. That this is a ridiculous train of thought to have because that person is ME. The person I want to be friends with. This person who I thought was way too fantastical, is me. Now, obviously, humans are complex creatures, and a Google result doesn’t capture any of our emotions, dreams and in a way, our essence. It’s like a cold, hard version of you. Yet, what I was thinking when I was looking at the results was, this person (again, ME) is WAY too cool because at first glance, 1. they’re a published researcher 2. who also has a blog that’s somewhat prolific, 3. has newsletters and all that jazz and 4. clearly has er life under control. (5. including some pleasant looking photos, teehee). And I think, “She looks dynamic. She looks interesting. But, she is not me” while looking at a photo of myself.
This dissonance was amplified by a recent experience. I’ve been wearing blazers and jeans to work because my office is super chill with what you wear, and jeans + blazer is a look I LOVE. Not too common in hot and humid Singapore but it exists, and I felt this was my opportunity to be dressed like the people I see on Instagram. And want to copy. Yeah, I said it. I’m still learning to style myself, I’m still learning about the colours that work for my skin tone and I’m still unlearning what was ingrained in me about what people think works on my body, my colouring, my sizing. And you know what? This past week, two different people complimented my outfits. One of them went on to say they love how I always look so put together. And what was my reflexive thought? They’re just being nice. They’re lying. They’re just making conversation. The looks I put effort into creating was recognised, I was given comments just like the kind I read under the looks I have saved in Instagram in real time and in person. Which in a way is what I wanted, right? And I couldn’t find it in me to accept it. Just like the blog I’ve created and have up and running for six years. Just like the research articles I wrote, dealt with the absurdity of editing, and published. Just like my career that was staring back at me. The compliments were particularly jarring because if I can go around giving compliments without reservation, why can’t I accept them without reservation? Why do I build this distance between who I truly am and who I think I am? What’s wrong with me??
Now, this is not the first time I’m feeling this way – I have talked about battling imposter syndrome and I don’t know if it’s because this has been simmering in my mind for some time already but I feel the answer came together really quickly.
Here’s the long and short of the Google resultpage: I built it all. The problem (or the positive, whichever way you choose to see it) is, I tend to think I’m luckier than most. I feel if I put in my 100%, I get about 120% to 150% in return. Everything I do, I feel I reap at a greater volume than the average person. Call it God, my ancestors, sheer luck, but I always have and continue to feel as though there’s an external force guiding me and looking out for me. I know this much to be true. But you know what is also true? I did the work. ALL of it. I didn’t faff about. I didn’t shake my legs and snap my fingers at the universe saying, “Sort it out.” The sun may have helped dry the cement, but I laid the building blocks of my fort. And I have not been giving myself enough credit. Instead, I’ve been displacing the entirety of my credit to the sun. And that’s the root of why it’s so hard for me to believe that the cold, hard version of me that was staring back at me through Google is me.
Oh, and get this: I also realised why/ how I started displacing the credit to my own efforts. One epiphany after another. It’s total cliché though. My childhood. Tada. The kid who couldn’t even talk in English. The kid who was called names for her physical appearance in English, Mandarin, and Tamil. The kid who was just meek and shy about everything. You would think you would have resolved such things long ago and moved on but turns out, no, I never fully healed from it. I understood it, but never took the next steps. Well. That kid now has a blog in English. That kid has now learned to like how she looks and appreciates aesthetics for what it is. That kid now shares with and teaches people skills she picked up. And I want to hold that kid close and say, “We did it. And you know what, we are still doing it.”
Perhaps this is an apt reminder of the theme I chose for 2024; “the year for/ of me”. An opportunity to understand that choosing me for a year requires me to first recognise the times and places where I’ve not chosen me. And that perhaps looks like acknowledging my own efforts. If I get to have such a prominent theme for January already, I can’t wait to see what I would learn through the rest of the year by choosing me.
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