Is this it?

What if this is it? The question comes unbidden—a whisper, a constant beat, pulsing beneath everything I do. What if this is all I ever know of me? Am I the person I want to be at this moment, right now? What if I won’t get another chance to be here, to be me, to show the world the best version of myself?

I feel it most when I’m alone, in a crowd. Conversations begin, laughter fills the air, and inside, the thought surfaces again: Make it count. This might be it. I shift, I straighten, I work on my smile. Be your best self.

I want to be remembered for the best parts of me—every word polished, every action just right. I want to leave no space for mistakes, for misunderstandings. If this is all they’ll ever know of me, it has to be flawless. There’s no room for tiredness, no room for missteps. I can’t let them see the mess beneath the surface.

But then, another thought intrudes, quieter: Is this all there is? Will this be everything I’ll ever know of myself? Do I have to be perfect?

But there’s an ache under this drive, a part of me that quietly whispers, They don’t know you. They can’t see beyond the perfection you project. They don’t know what it’s like to carry this weight, this awareness of your own fragile humanity. And maybe they don’t need to. I know what I’ve carried, what I’ve overcome. Beneath the polished surface, there’s a depth only I can fully understand—a resilience that doesn’t need anyone’s validation but my own.

Every time that I meet with my Ross Immersive Semester team, Ron  tends to talk about food all of the time.  Currently Ron is saying, “I love Sweetgreens and Chipotle. I am deciding which of the two to eat.”

Saja says, “Ugh, both are such good options although Sweetgreens is a bit more healthy,” then she takes a look at me and comments, “Camila, maybe you should try it sometime.  It might help you lose some weight.”

To be honest, I’ve always struggled with my weight. Some years, I’m thinner; other years, a bit softer around the edges. But does that really define me? I’m more than the body I move through the world in. My best self is who I am on the inside—the kindness I show, the resilience I carry, the love I give. Shouldn’t those be the things that matter most? Shouldn’t I honor the strength and compassion within me, rather than worrying about numbers on a scale?

 Saja, do you know the things that are going on with me right now? Have you taken the time to get to know me and not just how I look?  Did you know that my brother passed away 2 years ago, and that now I basically have 3 children of my own, finding ways to help them in every way possible? Thinking about my family whenever I can? Thinking about my future whenever I can? Do you know that like you, I go to the Ross School of Business, I study full time, but at the same time am a mother, a sister, and a daughter, an aunt, a cousin, and a mentor, etc.? Do you know that I don’t feel that great anymore, that sometimes I just want to S C R E A M.

No.

The silence fell thick, heavy, like a scream buried so deep it left my chest aching. The words wouldn't come, trapped somewhere between my ribs and the back of my throat, choking me. It was everything I can’t say, bound tightly and hidden beneath the weight of it all.I won’t do that.

Saja sees my appearance, but I see my strength—the weight I’ve lifted, not on my body, but in my heart, and the battles I’ve fought quietly and won.

Instead:

I just continued to smile and nod. Who would want to remember me as an outburst? Who would really care about what I feel like?

If this was my last moment, I wouldn’t want to go that way either.

This is what I’m telling myself now: Saja doesn’t know my story, but that’s okay. I don’t need her to know it. I need to remember it. I need to honor my journey, the battles I’ve fought, and give myself the credit I deserve. If this is my last moment, let it be filled with the grace of knowing who I am.

As I’m talking, as I’m laughing with others, my mind drifts. If only they knew what it felt like, if only they knew that every word I say feels like it’s weighted with the need to be final, to be significant. Wait—What if this is it? Maybe it’s heavy, carrying this awareness, but maybe it’s also a reminder of my strength—the strength to face life with open eyes, knowing its fragility.

But there’s this gap, this canyon of misunderstanding. I think you don’t know me. And if you don’t know me, what is the point of perfection? The best version of myself isn’t some polished mask, it’s something raw and real. It’s what I can never seem to share.

Perfection may be impossible, but maybe it’s enough that I’m always trying, always reaching. Maybe that effort is something to be proud of, a way to honor my own determination.

The thought returns, obsessive, circling back: This might be your last moment—be the best version of yourself. It’s a mantra that pulls at me from both sides: the polished perfection and the honesty of imperfection. I want to be real, but I want to be worthy of remembrance.  Maybe my best self is the one that knows I’m worthy, just as I am.

If this is my last moment, I want to be content with the way I lived it—not flawless, just real. Not worrying about whether they see me perfectly, but whether I feel at peace.  Do I care about how I look like? Am I satisfied with how I lived my life and does how I look make my life complete? 

Or does the way that I connect with people let them feel heard and understood and accepted?  Does the way I connect to myself make me feel like me? Maybe, is it the way that I face my struggles with bravery and strength? Am I satisfied with how I’ve lived my life so far? I feel so.

Does my best self mean being polished and untouchable? Or does it mean letting go, letting myself be seen as I am, in all the messy, unfinished truth?

Maybe my best self is the one who isn’t afraid of the mess—the one who honors the imperfections, the struggles that have shaped me. I’ve been through so much, and I’m still here, still striving. Isn’t that worth something? My best self doesn’t need to be polished. She’s already whole, already worthy, simply because she’s real.

There is a kind of freedom in embracing this moment as the last. It sharpens each detail—the tilt of a friend’s smile, the warmth of their voice, the way my heart beats just a bit faster. There is an obsession here, a need to be present, to make every word and every look matter.

I am alone in Ann Arbor, with almost no friends, no family, no one who truly sees me. And yet, I’m surrounded by people like Saja, who judge me even though they barely know me. I want them to understand, to know me beyond the surface. But how? How can I keep a smile on my face, pretend everything’s fine, and still reveal who I am?

Then, I think: if I die tomorrow, will my weight be the thing that defines me? Will it be my looks that linger? When I’m gone, will Saja’s opinion matter at all? No. Not to me. My life, my last moments—those are mine alone. Maybe the only judgment that matters is my own. Would I be satisfied with my life? Have I honored who I am?

And I know who truly matters. I imagine my parents, and they do know me. They know the weight I’ve carried, the love I’ve given. They see all of me—imperfect but real, always trying, always working to become the best version of me. I might not be polished, might not always get it right, but I am my best self to them. Not perfect, but true.

I think maybe my best self isn’t perfect. Maybe it’s just honest. Maybe if I stop needing to be flawless, I’ll finally become the person I’m trying so hard to be: someone who is brave enough to live fully, right here, right now.

If this really is my last moment, maybe my best self is a contradiction—flawed and striving, both polished and raw. Maybe the perfection I’ve been chasing is not what will last. It’s the pieces of me I am willing to let be seen, unguarded. It’s the fullness of being here, even if this moment, like me, is imperfect.

In the end, it isn’t the polished edges that will hold me together. It’s the courage to show up, to be present in my last moments, just as I am.

What if this moment is all I have left?

I want it to be mine—not perfect, just true. It’s the courage to show up, fully, even if imperfect. That is what will hold me.

I want to be happy with myself at the moment I go.  Am I my best self right now? I think so? Am I with a smile on my face? Maybe, maybe not, but who cares? Just me. In the end, if this is it, I want to leave not indefectible, but whole. I want to be at ease with my own choices, smiling at myself, knowing I was true. Maybe that’s all the ‘best self’ I need: not flawless, but fully and joyfully me.

Ah… 

Now I can see it…

Days later, my teammate Eliah (from my operations management team) and I sat across from each other, both of us quiet. It’s a rare pause from the usual busy-ness and energy of our team meetings. Eliah looks down, hesitant, then finally speaks up. “You know, Camila, I always feel like people don’t take me seriously. They think I’m just… I don’t know, kind of off and funny because of the way I talk. They always laugh and it’s like they’re always making fun of me.”

G A S P - remembering all the times I, too, have wondered what people are really seeing when they look at me.

“Honestly, Eliah,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “I don’t see you that way at all. I think you’re a great person, no matter how you talk. I know it feels like people don’t always understand who you are…who any of us are, but that doesn’t mean we’re any less worthy.” I want them to feel it, to know how deeply I mean this.

You’re not alone in this.

The words echo in my mind, louder than I can say out loud. I hope they hear the sincerity, the connection I’m reaching for. I want them to understand that I mean it, that beneath the exterior we show, the facade we sometimes show as business students, there’s a quiet solidarity in being human.

Maybe they understand. Maybe they don’t. But in that moment, as Eliah looks back at me with a small, tentative smile, I know I’ve shared a glimpse of who I am—genuine, present, without the need for polish.

If this is the last moment I am here, I feel satisfied. This is my best self. Not perfect, just me. Someone who understands others.  And now, I can finally B R E A T H E.