Learning to be a Person

Four perspectives on becoming someone.

We thought this would be simple. A question you could hold in your hands, turn over, answer in a few honest paragraphs: what does it mean to learn how to be a person? It sounded almost obvious at first—something we’re all supposed to know already, something no one really teaches you how to do. But the more we sat with it, the more it unravelled into smaller, harder questions. How do you become someone you recognise? How do you grow without losing the parts of yourself you once needed? How do you make sense of change while you’re still in the middle of it?

We started somewhere slightly more crowded than this, more voices overlapping, more stories waiting to be told, but what remains feels no less full. Learning to be a person is rarely complete, rarely symmetrical, rarely what we planned. It shifts. It leaves gaps. Yet it asks us to continue anyway. What you’ll read here isn’t a guide or a set of answers. It’s a collection of attempts—moments of reflection, uncertainty, and realisation. Four different people, moving through different lives, circling the same idea: that being a person is not something we arrive at, but something we keep learning, over and over again.

Before anything else, I want to pause here, briefly, and acknowledge the people who made this piece what it is. Collaboration always sounds simple in theory, but in practice, it requires time, attention, and honesty that aren’t always easy to give. I’m deeply grateful to the three voices who chose to show up—who sat with this idea, turned it over in their own ways, and trusted this space with something of themselves. Each of them brings a different rhythm, a different way of seeing, and this piece is fuller because of that. Thank you for your patience, your openness, and for meeting me in the middle of something that is, by nature, unfinished.

໒꒱˚INTR୭ৎVËRT˚꒰ა (@purplewitch019) writes like memory feels: fluid, sensory, and just slightly out of reach. There’s a softness to their work, but also an insistence—a return to childhood, to feeling without restraint, to the idea that maybe we were never meant to become something polished, only something real. Their words move between fairytales and chaos, between tulips and sirens, holding both wonder and imperfection in the same breath.

J. Khanna ☆ (@jkhannawriting) approaches the same question from a different angle. Their writing lingers in uncertainty, in the weight of choice, in the anxiety of becoming. And yet, there’s something freeing in it too: a reframing of the fear we’ve been taught to hold, a reminder that we are not failing by not knowing—we are simply still choosing, still growing, still allowed to change.

And then there’s Ava (@avantii23), whose piece feels like a series of small, careful gestures. There’s a gentleness in the way they notice the world—flowers, ribbons, twigs and a determination beneath it all. Their writing doesn’t rush toward becoming; it lingers, it gathers, it builds slowly toward the hope that one day, the person in the mirror will feel whole.

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Wonder, Chaos, and Imperfection

You know how when we were younger, we were told different fairytales? We had this idea of Happily Ever Afters etched at the back of our minds, and we carry it with us for the rest of our lives, hoping to find it.

And one day, that day just might come. A diamond-encrusted tiara placed on our head, lying on top of our thick curls and a throne of whatever it took us to get there.

That day could’ve even been today.

You know how when we were younger we were allowed to run through the woods and mess up ourselves in the mud, roll down in the spring and race ourselves in the rain? We had this idea of living in the present and never for once did we think we were doing something wrong or embarrassing, and we carry it with us for the rest of our lives hoping we continue in it.

And one day, that day just might come. A bouquet of white tulips placed in our hands and the gentle smell engulfing our insides until all we could think about is a meadow across.

That day could’ve even been today.

You know how when we were younger we were frightened by the thunder storm, infatuated by the glittering of the Christmas blizzards, horrified of made-up monsters and satisfied with a cone of ice cream? We had this idea of expressing emotions and never did we try to suppress our uneasy thoughts or wild imagination, and we carry it with us for the rest of our lives hoping to bask in whatever feelings we had at that moment.

And one day, that day might just come. A letter of love and life written to us, the words of late night thoughts, mid-day poems and half written novels crowding our little heart until all we are able to see are the hidden truths of others around us.

That day could’ve even been today.

And yet It could’ve…

Because we weren’t the flat ironed polka-dotted shirts tucked in the wardrobes, or the carefully grounded coffee beans in the espresso machine. We weren’t the punctual church bells ringing at a distance or the soft street lamps gleaming at the distance; we were the wrinkled laundry forgotten on the leather chair at noon. We were the spilled soy milk on the kitchen counter during chaos, we were the loud sirens of the ambulance rushing to a crime scene. We were the glaring lights of a disco ball at four A.M in the pub at oak Street. We weren’t perfect; we were perfect in our own way but we weren’t perfect in the way the world wanted us to be and I think that’s okay. We were existing and that is in itself love. Because love is life and that’s what makes us human.

We don’t always have to be the perfect laid chignon, I think we could be the messy bun that turned golden under the setting sun. I also think we could still be a perfectly laid chignon; in fact I think we could be whatever we wanted to be. Because nothing is new under the sun anyways.

Everything seen or experienced has been done. Everything taken or gone to has been done. Every note read or scene watched has been done. So why do you want to live a life already lived? We should be able to have dreams and fulfill it or dwell in our myths. We should be able to say our truth, whether or not we are called crazy. We should be able to live and let's live

—໒꒱˚INTR୭ৎVËRT˚꒰ა

Reading this piece, I’m struck by the way childhood memories become a lens for understanding ourselves. The fairytales, the freedom to get muddy, the vivid sensory experiences—they aren’t just nostalgia; they are reminders that our truest selves are found in imperfection and play. INTRVËRT’s writing asks us to rethink what “perfection” really is and to see that existence itself, messy and chaotic, is a form of love. It reminds me that growing up isn’t about fitting a mould—it’s about letting the messy, golden moments continue to shape us.

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Choice, Growth, and Becoming

When it comes to growing up and facing your future, many see themselves reflected in Sylvia Plath’s infamous fig tree analogy. This paralysis of indecision on which direction to take your life is as ubiquitous as it is limiting. That struggle gnaws at your guts when we are reared in a society that insists that life is a singular pathway, where the most important thing we can do is to choose a lane early to maximize the time spent working towards success. Thus, we are left with the complete weight of our future resting on our young shoulders. We must find the uniform that will suit us well for the rest of our lives.

But what if we’re looking at this all wrong? What if it’s not about choosing the right fig and learning how to prepare it well, but about gleefully tasting handfuls to find our favorite variety?
I argue that “learning to be a person” isn’t about teaching yourself social graces and how to turn in your taxes. Rather, it’s an act of discovery and creation—discovering what has always resonated with your inner child and creating the personhood you desire by surrounding yourself with that in all of its forms. Trying on lifestyles like clothes: some fitting perfectly, others oversized, one that’s too tight, some just not your style, and those that fit great but are outgrown after a season.

Some figs are too sweet, too sour, too old to taste good anymore, or not yet ready to be picked. Some figs can just fall to the ground and rot without you ever having to look at them at all, because something inside you knows that it wasn’t meant for you to eat. Something inside you knows that, sometimes, the right decision lies in making mistakes and letting go. How else can you make room for the new and unexpected? It’s about creating a life that you can grow into, with deep roots stemming from the truest parts of your soul and strong vines branching off in all directions.

You aren’t the forlorn gardener trying desperately to catch falling figs; you’re the tree of creation itself.
Indecision, failure, and optimistically accepting things as temporary are frowned upon in our culture, which exalts consistency and linear growth. But learning to be a person shouldn’t be about learning how to exist within a confined role. It should be about learning what makes you feel like a whole person, and chasing all the avenues that might make that come true. To learn to be a person is to truly learn that we have free will, and that embracing the fleeting choices and seasons of life is what makes it all worthwhile.

— J. Khanna ☆

The metaphor of the fig tree expands on what INTRVËRT began: if childhood reminds us of possibility, Khanna reminds us that adulthood is still full of choices—sometimes overwhelming ones. I find this section grounding because it frames indecision not as failure, but as an opportunity for exploration. Learning to be a person, in Khanna’s words, is not about fitting one path; it’s about tasting, experimenting, and creating a life that feels authentic. Their metaphor turns anxiety into possibility, turning the pressure to “choose correctly” into a permission to grow.

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Small Gestures, Quiet Becoming

I stop and gaze at every flower
that I see along the pavement,
just long enough to admire it
and breathe in the petals’ scent.

I tie ribbons to branches of trees
and pray that no one takes them apart;
the soft satin floats with the breeze
against the rough and rugged bark.

I gather small, dried twigs
and scatter them in my front yard,
so that when the birds build a nest,
they don’t have to look hard.

I will keep doing this and more;
though it may take days or seasons.
I won’t stop until the silhouette in the mirror
starts to resemble a person.

— Ava

Ava’s piece slows us down. After INTRVËRT’s sensory chaos and Khanna’s branching metaphors, Ava focuses on small, deliberate acts of noticing and creating. Her gestures—gazing at flowers, tying ribbons, scattering twigs become almost meditative, a way of training oneself into becoming. I see here a bridge between external action and internal growth: sometimes learning to be a person isn’t about grand milestones, but about consistent, mindful attention to the world and ourselves. Her hope reminds us that becoming is ongoing, and the reflection in the mirror is never truly final—it evolves as we do.

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What these three voices remind me is that becoming a person is not a single path—it is a weaving of wonder, choice, and quiet attention. INTRVËRT shows us the beauty of imperfection: the messy bun, the spilled milk, the sirens in the night. These aren’t flaws—they are the wild, luminous parts of ourselves that insist on existing, that remind us life is not meant to be flattened into perfection. Childhood’s fairytales, the tulips, the letters of love—they are symbols of the joy, chaos, and unpolished magic that we carry forward if we allow ourselves to see it.

Khanna takes us into the delight of choice. The fig tree is not a cage, but a canopy of possibility; each branch is a path, a taste, a season of life waiting to be discovered. Some figs are too sour, too sweet, too early, or too late—but that is the point: learning to be a person is learning to taste, to try, to let go of what doesn’t nourish us, and to make room for the figs we were always meant to pick. The metaphor teaches us that indecision, imperfection, and letting things fall away are not failures—they are the soil of growth.

Ava, in contrast, shows us the deliberate work of becoming. Every flower gazed at, every ribbon tied, every twig scattered is a small act of creation. Her metaphors are gentle but powerful: life is shaped by attention, by care, by the patience to let ourselves and the world grow slowly, tenderly. To “start to resemble a person” is not to finish, but to practice, to build ourselves brick by brick, gesture by gesture, day by day.

Taken together, these writings form a constellation of becoming. There is chaos and wonder. There is choice and the courage to taste life’s figs. There is the shaping of self through small acts of attention and care. To learn to be a person, this collaboration seems to say, is to hold all of it: the messy and the meticulous, the wild and the intentional, the past and the unfolding present. And in holding all of it, we discover something: we are not trying to reach a final form or a perfect version. We are learning to move through life fully, to taste it, to notice it, to live it with openness. We are learning, above all, to love the life we already have, with all its spilled milk, its figs, and its flowers along the pavement.

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If you found yourself moved, challenged, or comforted by any of what you just read, I hope you’ll take a moment to support these writers. Follow their work, share it with someone who might need it, or simply tell them that their words mattered. Creativity thrives when it is seen, and these three are creating something worth seeing. Thank you for being here, for witnessing these voices, and for letting them expand the world a little.

໒꒱˚INTR୭ৎVËRT˚꒰ა - https://substack.com/@purplewitch019

J. Khanna ☆ - https://substack.com/@jkhannawriting

Ava - https://substack.com/@avantii23