WISE ASS WEDNESDAY

Stop Performing: Letting Go of the Version of You That No Longer Fits

You know that feeling when you're at a party and you catch yourself mid-sentence, and suddenly you realize you're performing? Like, you're not actually talking, you're doing a bit. Playing a character. Being the version of you that you think this room needs.

Yeah. That shit is exhausting.

And here's the thing: we don't just do it at parties. We do it everywhere. With our families. At work. On social media. Even alone sometimes, performing for some imaginary audience that's keeping score of whether we're doing life "right."

I've been thinking a lot lately about how much energy I've wasted trying to be versions of myself that never quite fit. The "always positive" guy. The "has it all figured out" guy. The "doesn't get rattled by anything" guy. All these costumes I've worn because I thought that's what I was supposed to be.

But what if we just... stopped?

The Performance Trap

Here's what nobody tells you about performing: it doesn't just exhaust you, it disconnects you from yourself. When you're busy being who you think you should be, you lose touch with who you actually are.

And the worst part? The performance never ends. Because once you start, you have to keep it up. You have to maintain the character. Any crack in the facade feels like failure.

I spent years performing "fine." Everything was always fine. Great, even. Because admitting struggle felt like admitting defeat. Like I wasn't strong enough or evolved enough or whatever enough.

But you can only hold that pose for so long before something breaks.

For me, it was a random Tuesday. Nothing dramatic happened. I just woke up and realized I was so tired of pretending. Tired of curating every response, every reaction, every version of myself that I put out into the world. Tired of the gap between what I showed people and what I actually felt.

The scary question: if I stop performing... who am I?

Integration Isn't Pretty (And That's Okay)

Here's what they don't tell you about "integrating your past and present" or "loving all parts of yourself", it's messy as hell.

We have this idea that healing is this clean, linear thing. You do the work, you have the breakthrough, you're fixed. But that's not how it works. Integration is more like... gathering up all these scattered pieces of yourself, the embarrassing ones, the painful ones, the ones you've been trying to hide, and saying, "Okay. This is all me."

The 15-year-old version of you who made terrible choices? You.

The version of you who said that hurtful thing you still cringe about? Also you.

The version of you who got hurt and built walls so high nobody could reach you? Yep, you too.

And also: the version of you who tried. Who loved hard. Who showed up even when it was scary. Who survived things that could've broken you.

All of it. All you.

The temptation is to cherry-pick. To only claim the parts that look good on paper. But that's just another performance, isn't it? "Look at how self-aware I am about my past mistakes (but only the ones that make me look relatable and growth-oriented)."

Real integration means looking at the stuff that makes you uncomfortable and not turning away. It means sitting with the versions of yourself you'd rather forget and finding some compassion for them anyway.

Letting Go of Who You're Not

So how do you figure out which versions to let go of?

Ask yourself: Does this feel like me, or does this feel like what I think people want from me?

It's such a simple question, but man, it cuts through so much noise.

That persona of having your shit together 24/7? Probably not you. Nobody has their shit together all the time, and pretending you do just isolates you from real connection.

The version of you that never asks for help? That's usually fear dressed up as independence.

The one who has to be the "fun one" or the "smart one" or the "strong one" all the time? That's a role you're playing, not who you are.

Here's what's wild: when you start letting go of who you're not, you don't become less. You become more. More present. More honest. More you.

And yeah, it's scary. Because we build these versions of ourselves for a reason, usually protection. If I perform happiness, maybe I won't have to feel the sadness. If I perform confidence, maybe nobody will see the fear.

But here's the truth: those performances don't actually protect you. They just keep you locked in a character you have to maintain. And that's its own kind of prison.

The Gritty Path to Happiness

Let's talk about the dark stuff for a second.

Because I think we have this really toxic idea that the path to happiness is supposed to be... happy. Like, you're doing it wrong if you're still having hard days or dark thoughts or moments where everything feels impossible.

But staying on the path to happiness doesn't mean you skip the gritty, raw, uncomfortable feelings. It means you walk through them. You let yourself feel them without making them mean something's wrong with you.

Some days are going to be dark. Like, really dark. Days where getting out of bed feels like a victory. Days where you question everything. Days where the gap between who you are and who you want to be feels impossibly wide.

Those days are part of the journey. Not evidence that you're failing at the journey, actually part of it.

I used to think down days meant I was backsliding. Like, I should be past this by now. I've done the therapy, read the books, had the insights. Why am I still struggling?

But that's not how this works. Healing isn't linear. Growth isn't linear. Being human sure as hell isn't linear.

Down days don't erase the progress you've made. They're just... days. They come, they suck, and if you let them, they pass.

The trick is not making them mean more than they mean. Not spiraling into "I'll always feel like this" or "nothing's working" or "I'm fundamentally broken."

It's just a day. A hard day. And you've survived 100% of your hard days so far.

Stop Performing for the Audience in Your Head

You know what's funny? Most of the time, the audience we're performing for doesn't even exist.

Like, we think people are watching and judging every move we make, but mostly? People are too busy worrying about their own performance to notice ours.

That imaginary critic in your head who's keeping score of all your mistakes and inadequacies? Not real. Or at least, not as powerful as you've made them.

What if you just... stopped auditioning for approval?

What if you let yourself be messy and uncertain and still figuring it out?

What if you admitted when things are hard instead of performing "fine"?

What if you loved the parts of yourself you've been trying to edit out?

I'm not saying it's easy. God knows I still catch myself performing all the time. Still slip into old patterns of being who I think I should be instead of who I am.

But I'm getting better at noticing. And when I notice, I can choose differently.

All of You Gets to Be Here

Here's what I'm learning: you don't become whole by cutting off the parts of yourself that don't fit some ideal. You become whole by integrating all of it: past and present, light and shadow, the parts you're proud of and the parts you'd rather hide.

Every version of you that's ever existed is still in there somewhere. The scared kid, the reckless teenager, the heartbroken 20-something, the version of you that tried and failed and tried again.

They all get to be here. They're all part of the story.

And you don't have to perform for them either. You don't have to prove to your past self that you're okay now, or convince your future self that you're doing enough.

You just get to be you. Right now. With all the contradictions and complications and beautiful messiness that comes with being human.

Some days that'll feel like freedom. Some days it'll feel scary as hell.

Both are okay. Both are part of it.

The path to happiness isn't about becoming someone new. It's about becoming more of who you already are. Underneath all the performance and protection and personas.

And maybe, just maybe, that's enough.

Written by Penny at Breathe N Bounce.