The Right to Change
April 29, 2025
Writer: Marcela Batlle Cestero
Edited by: Zoe Gellert
There's a soft relief in being a stranger.
It’s why we like meeting new people. It’s not about the mystery, the blank slate, or the adrenaline of first impressions. It’s the comfort in anonymity — the quiet relief of not being tied to a track record. When you’re new to someone, there’s no archive of your contradictions. No inside jokes laced with judgment. No echoes of all the things you said you’d do and never did. You’re not the person who cried over nothing in a heated argument three months ago. You’re not the one who used to stay out too late or flake too often. You’re not the one who couldn’t let things go. You’re you, whoever that happens to be today.
But when people know you — really know you — there’s an attachment to a previous edition of you. One you may have long since outgrown.
There’s a quiet grief in being known too well. It’s like being a painting someone insists they’ve memorized. No matter how often you repaint the background or adjust the brushstrokes, they’re stuck seeing the version they hung in their memory. Even the smallest attempt at reinvention becomes an uphill climb. Say you want to wake up earlier, go on walks, stop doom-scrolling. Start eating healthier, forgiving quicker, and listening more than you react. Suddenly, your motivation gets dimmed by reminders of every daily routine, every time you bailed halfway. It’s not always malicious — sometimes it’s wrapped in laughter or nostalgia. But it lands the same. You’re reminded of your past like it’s evidence. Like there’s a case being built against your capacity to change.
Worse are the labels people get comfortable with. The ones that started as half-true and slowly take over. Maybe you were once the “opinionated one,” the “sensitive one,” the “unbothered one,” or the “brutally honest one.” You wore it like armor, convinced that your behaviors were encoded to fit a specific program, and maybe you even liked it for a while. But then you shift. Not in some grand rebirth, but in the quiet way people do when their priorities and perspectives start to fluctuate. You’re no longer chasing the same validations. The things that once felt important don’t hit the same anymore. Suddenly, you stop needing to be the loudest in the room, the quietest, the one who has the final word, or the one without a voice. And instead of seeing this as evolution, they see it as a contradiction.
That’s the frustrating thing about being perceived. Once people decide who you are, they barely update the file. Every interaction gets filtered through the past, even if your present couldn't be more different. You could pour your whole self into becoming better, clearer, calmer — and still be met with eyes squinting for the traces of the old you. Sometimes, it feels like your effort is invisible unless you become someone entirely unrecognizable. And that’s not fair.
It’s human to change. It’s necessary. And not every change needs to be decorated with proof or overachievement. Not every transformation requires a clean slate or a public announcement. The obsession with starting over — like you must disappear to deserve a fresh chapter — is exhausting. You’re allowed to keep the mess and still move forward. Owning your past doesn't mean dragging it behind you like dead weight. It just means not pretending it didn't happen. You can remember who you were and still demand to be seen for who you are now.
If someone defines you by your most unfinished parts, that’s on them. Yes, it’s important to acknowledge your shortcomings, apologize when you mess up, and understand the weight of what you’ve done or said. But if someone refuses to make space for the effort you’re putting into change, if they hold your worst moment tighter than your best ones and treat your past patterns as permanent — that’s not your burden to fix. That doesn’t mean your growth is invalid. It just means their perception is outdated, and you can’t beg someone into updating their version of you. All you can do is keep shaping yourself.
Most people will only see the version of you that’s most convenient to their comfort. You don’t owe them an explanation for every quiet shift or late-bloomed frame of mind. You just owe yourself the space to keep moving forward without carrying guilt for outgrowing what no longer fits. You’re allowed to outgrow people’s understanding of you. To be unreadable to those who stopped paying attention. You are not required to stay consistent in the eyes of others to be true to yourself — because the ones that truly want to see you grow, want to see you change.
Let the rest hold onto the past if they need to. You have better things to carry.