“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 still unclear to both me and god, 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 lava lamp I categorized as mood lighting.
I introduced myself to my new roommate—“Hey, I’m Steve.”
He nodded like that made perfect sense. And that was it. I was Steve now. Easy.
Until Thanksgiving break.
I was standing in a grocery store parking lot, holding a dented pumpkin pie and a two-liter of ginger ale, when 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.
Drafts and revisions
Here’s the thing: Steve was the draft I kept editing.
Stephen was the version I kept living.
Steve was tidy. Focused. Owned linen napkins. Replied to emails within 48 hours. He didn’t overthink texts or replay conversations while brushing his teeth.
Basically, Steve was me—if I ever followed through on all my good intentions.
That version—Vision Board Steve—has been with me a long time.
He’s gone through updates:
Minimalist Steve. Productive Steve. Mindful, Morning-Routine Steve.
Always a little cooler. A little calmer. Slightly better at life.
And yet—he’s never really shown up.
The person who shows up is me.
The me who runs late but texts ahead.
Who starts books and occasionally finishes them.
Who listens better than he used to, but still interrupts when he gets excited.
Who leaves the laundry in the dryer just long enough to become a regret.
I used to think the gap between who I meant to be and who I actually am was failure.
Like I’d missed the mark on some imaginary version of adulthood everyone else seemed to have downloaded.
Now I think that gap is life.
That’s where all the good stuff happens—the learning, the adjusting, the trying again.
The grace.
How it shows up
It shows up in parenting, when I’m trying to be patient but my voice does that thing anyway.
It shows up in marriage, when I realize that listening is not the same as waiting for my turn to talk.
It shows up in friendship, when I finally stop trying to impress people and just try to be with them.
And sometimes, it shows up at 2 a.m., when an older version of me—the overeager one, the know-it-all, the guy who wore cargo shorts unironically—sneaks in and whispers, “You really said that out loud?”
But that’s the deal, right?
Every version of me, awkward or arrogant or painfully sincere, somehow led to this one.
And this one—this version right here—isn’t perfect, but he’s trying.
He’s learning to like the mess.
To stop grading himself on how efficiently he’s improving.
To extend the same grace to other people who are also somewhere between “who they were” and “who they’re trying to be.”
Becoming who I already was
The me I meant to be looked great on paper.
The me I actually am shows up when it counts.
He’s not optimized, but he’s honest.
Not efficient, but present.
And most days, that feels like progress.
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.
