Before I Became Me

Camila Mora
Nov 22, 2025
3 min read

Freshman year, I thought control would save me.

I planned everything — my classes, my internships, my future. I left no space for mistakes. I color-coded my calendar like it was a map to the person I wanted to become. I thought if I worked hard enough, if I stayed disciplined enough, if I stayed perfect enough, nothing bad would happen. Nothing unexpected. Nothing unfair.

But even then, even before anything shattered, there was this restlessness in me… this feeling that I was always behind, always lacking, always needing to be better. I WAS NEVER SATISFIED. I wanted the future so badly I forgot to live in the present.

Sometimes I wonder who that girl really was…the one who couldn’t sit still, who measured her worth by how productive she was, who feared slowing down because slowing down meant feeling everything she didn’t know how to handle.

...

Then my brother died.

And control — the one thing I worshipped — vanished in a single phone call.

There’s no controlling grief. No planning your way through loss. No organizing the collapse of the world you knew. Suddenly, all the rules I lived by meant nothing. My five-year plan? Irrelevant. My timeline? Meaningless.

I remember thinking, “If I couldn’t control this… what can I control?”

The answer kind of terrified me: very little.

And somehow, that became the beginning: not of falling apart, but of becoming real.

Grief aged me.

It made me feel older than everyone around me, like I had been pushed into adulthood before I knew how to stand in it.

While other freshmen were choosing outfits for parties, I was choosing black clothes for a funeral. While they took fun photos in dorm hallways, I was sitting alone in an airport, crying in silence, repeating to myself, “Todo va a estar bien, Cami. Tranquila…” even though I didn’t believe it.

Nothing in my life was controlled anymore.

And little by little, I stopped trying to force it.

After a while, something unexpected happened.

I started doing things I never would’ve allowed myself to do as a freshman.

...

I said yes to studying abroad in Vienna: a country where I didn’t speak the language, where I didn’t know a single street name, where nothing felt familiar or predictable. And yet… I felt free. I wasn’t controlling. I was learning. I was living. Every day felt like an accident that somehow worked out.

Then came Seattle. A city I had only seen online. A city far from everything I once clung to.

Freshman-year me would’ve made a detailed list of pros and cons before moving there. She would’ve overthought every step.

But post-grief me said, why not?

Post-grief me said, just go.

Post-grief me stepped onto the plane with fear in her chest but peace in her hands.

And somehow — without perfection, without control — I thrived.

I made friends.

I found joy.

I built a life.

I earned a full-time job offer.

Not because I executed a flawless plan, but because I let myself exist imperfectly.

Sometimes people think they know me because they see me smiling, working, achieving, moving across continents like it’s nothing. They see the results, not the journey. They see the polished side. They don’t see the nights I doubted myself, the fears I carried silently, the grief stitched into everything I do.

People think strength is control.But I’ve learned that strength is surrender.Strength is saying, “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I’m going anyway.”

Freshman-year me would’ve never recognized that girl.

But she would’ve admired her.

Now, I don’t plan every detail.

I don’t force myself to be perfect.

I don’t chase the future like I’m running out of time.

I live.

I breathe.

I leap.

I trust.

And the most surprising part?

I’m finally proud of the girl I’ve become.

Not because she’s perfect —but because she’s honest.