Tyler Hamilton & the No Good, Very Bad Identity Crisis

When Will Just Being Me Be Enough?

Am I the only one who lets loose on occasion, only to spiral for days afterward, as if joy were some betrayal of character or moral failing? I go out, laugh too loud, flirt with strangers, maybe dance a little too enthusiastically, and then spend the next three days in a philosophical tailspin, dissecting each moment like a forensic analyst of my own pleasure. God forbid I enjoy myself and let the guard down. Apparently, any moment of ease must be followed by a compulsory serving of shame and a garnish of existential dread.

I envy people who move through the world as if it were made for them. Those who say yes to life without fear of who might be watching, who they might offend, or who they might become in the process. I’ve always had the opposite instinct. Control. Containment. Perfection. Stiff-upper-lip.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived by an unspoken rule: anything less than perfect is unacceptable. I don’t hold this standard for others. It’s just for me. I don’t extend this cruelty outward; I reserve it exclusively for myself.

And I am tired.

Lately, I’ve begun to realize that the person I’ve spent most of my life trying to become, the polished, composed, culturally palatable version of myself, was constructed not out of self-love but out of fear. A fear of not being taken seriously. A fear of being dismissed. A fear of being too much, or worse, not enough.

When grief entered my life, along with the trauma and upheaval that often accompanies it, I lost most sense of who I am. A ground zero of identity. A day one in a new world. Grief has a way of clearing the table. Everything you thought mattered gets knocked to the floor, and you’re left staring at the pieces, trying to remember how they all fit and what their proper place was. When I lost people I loved, when I lost parts of myself, I tried to rebuild, but not with mercy. I rebuilt with a kind of performance. With achievement. If I could just be smarter, sharper, more magnetic, maybe I could outrun the emptiness. Maybe I could become someone new.

Lately, I’ve been toying with the idea of reinvention. A blind effort to explore different parts of myself that I felt could be more fun, more interesting, more enjoyable than this person I am now. I told people I wanted to explore a “fuck-you phase.” A devil-may-care season of life where I’d loosen the grip, laugh at the rules, and adopt a breezy and unbothered persona.

But the truth is, I’m not that guy. I’ve never been that guy and no matter how hard I try, it just feels wrong. I overthink. I over-feel. I carry entire conversations in my head long after they’ve ended. I spend too much time wondering whether I’m allowed to post a photo of myself without undermining my intellectual credibility.

I’m just not breezy. I’m more of a slow-burning existential candle with a nervous system finely tuned to detect disappointment from ten paces away.

I listen to Taylor Swift without a hint of irony.
My favorite show is Gilmore Girls.
I’ve never, not once, let go of the dream that is Spice World.
And the ending of The Princess Diaries? It gets me a little emotional every time. No shame.

My dog is my best friend, and the most precious thing I own is a threadbare sweater that once belonged to my grandfather. I spend about 90% of my life reading, and I am, quite honestly, deeply and shamelessly sensitive. I live in mild but consistent fear of getting in trouble, and the worst thing you could say to me is that I seem unapproachable or intimidating. I never want anyone to feel excluded or alone around me. Also, I dance like an absolute fool because it brings me joy, and frankly, I think I look great doing it. Even if that’s a bold delusion.

That’s the kind of guy I am. My confidence is appropriately placed, I can assure you. I’ve known more rejection than I care to admit on paper. I move through life with rhythm, heart, and at least one Taylor Swift, Tori Amos, or Alanis Morissette song at the ready that I can apply to any given situation.

And yet, I want to learn how to not be so uptight. I want to stop measuring my worth in achievements or flawless social performances. I want to let go. Not completely, not chaotically, but gently. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to remember that I’m allowed to take up space as I am.

Because here’s the thing: I’m sensitive. I’m awkward. I’m intelligent in ways that make small talk difficult and eye contact a blood sport. But that doesn’t mean I can’t also be fun, or flirty, or full of life. I am not one thing. I never have been no matter how hard I try.

Maybe I’ll never be careless. I’ll never be one for apathy, one night stands, or hook ups. Maybe I’ll always move through the world with a little extra caution and a well-timed eyebrow raise. I’ll always be the guy that thinks bringing a book to a bar is a good idea. But I can choose joy. I can choose softness. I can learn to flirt with life again, even if I keep a book in my hand while doing it.

I’m not here to reinvent myself anymore. I’m here to reintegrate. The quiet boy. The clever one. The dramatic one. The one who needs to rest. The one who still believes in magic. They all get to come with me.

Maybe that’s what healing really looks like.
Not reinvention, but reunion.
Not perfection, but permission.

And perhaps that’s where the fun begins.