“So many people from your past know a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.”
Unknown
Picture this: a nervous freshman in a dorm room lit like a dentist’s office, trying to look casual while clearly sweating through his only decent T-shirt.
That was me.
And for reasons I still can’t fully explain, I decided that from this day forward, I would go by “Steve”.
It wasn’t a nickname so much as a rebrand. Not a total overhaul—just a light refresh. I wasn’t trying to become a whole new person with a buzzcut and a nose ring. I just figured Steve sounded cooler. Simpler. Like someone who didn’t overthink things or mentally rank every social interaction for later review.
Steve, I imagined… drank his coffee black. Wore hoodies that didn’t scream “varsity tennis, 1996.” He was confident. Casual. Probably grew his hair out just enough to suggest he played acoustic guitar—but not enough to look like he cared about it.
So I rolled up on move-in day with a suitcase full of “college clothes” and a pack of mini highlighters I truly thought would change my academic life. I was Steve. Just like that. A new era.
That is… until I was back home for Thanksgiving break. Standing in a grocery store parking lot—juggling a two-liter of ginger ale and a slightly dented pumpkin pie—that I heard a familiar voice call out, “Steve!”
And I turned. Instantly. Like a golden retriever who’s always been Steve.
I had to laugh at myself.
The rebrand wasn’t new. It wasn’t even mine. Half my friends back home had already been calling me Steve for years.
I was the last one to know I’d already become the new me.
Classic Stephen move.
Steve was the draft I kept editing. Stephen was the version I kept living.
Steve noticed things. He also used a planner, remembered anniversaries, and knew how to fold a fitted sheet—if not literally, then metaphorically. He was organized. Focused. Less apologetic. More the kind of person who owned linen napkins and didn’t over-explain his preferences to waitstaff.
That version of me—”Vision Board Steve”—has been with me for a long time. He’s shape-shifted over the years, but the idea stays the same: someday, somehow, I will become a more polished, capable, optimized version of myself. A little wiser, a little fitter, and significantly better at replying to emails.
But that version never really shows up.
What shows up… is me.
The me I actually am runs late sometimes, but he texts ahead. He starts books and occasionally even finishes them. He tries to listen better than he used to—though he still interrupts when he gets excited. He doesn’t always prioritize the right things, but he tries. And when he falls short, he’s learning not to make a full-time job out of self-critique.
I used to think the gap between who I meant to be and who actually showed up was a kind of failure—some personal defect I hadn’t gotten around to fixing. Laziness, maybe. Or disorganization dressed up as personality.
But now? I’m starting to think that gap is just… life. The good stuff isn’t in finally arriving at some imagined destination. It’s in navigating that space—daily—with grace, curiosity, and a willingness to grow.
It shows up in how I parent, even when I have no idea what I’m doing.
It shows up in my marriage, where I’m still learning that listening isn’t waiting to talk.
It shows up with friends, when I stop trying to impress and just try to be present.
There are still moments when I cringe at the past versions of me that people might remember—too eager, too certain, too unaware of how much space I was taking up. The kind of moments that show up uninvited at 2 a.m. and whisper, “You really said that out loud?”
But that’s part of the deal, isn’t it?
Every version of me, awkward or overconfident or wildly off the mark, somehow led to this one. And this one—this messy, evolving, slightly scattered version—is doing okay. Most days, anyway.
The me I meant to be was tidy. Easy to admire on paper.
But the me I actually am? He’s real. He’s honest. He’s trying. And maybe most importantly, he’s learning to extend the same grace to others. Because everyone is carrying around some version of themselves they’re still trying to outgrow—or live up to.
For what it’s worth, the rebrand never really stuck.
I’m still Stephen. Still me. Still trying to fold the fitted sheet.
But I think Steve would be proud.
