Have You Become the Person You Were Expected to Be?
A conversation with one of my students made me think about identity, belonging and why the second half of life gives us the opportunity to rediscover who we really are.
This week, a conversation with one of the boys I teach made me think deeply about the path we take through life and the people we become along the way. When I first started teaching at my current school, he was one of those pupils I secretly hoped wouldn't appear on my timetable. He was frequently in trouble, often disrupted lessons and, more than once, had to be removed from my classroom. Most teachers know that feeling.
When you're new to a school, you tend to see behaviour before you see the person. Behaviour is obvious. Character takes time. As the months pass, relationships develop, trust begins to grow and, if you're paying attention, you start to understand the young people behind the behaviour.
Last week was one of those unbearably hot afternoons where simply concentrating was a challenge. Rather than spending the lesson pushing everyone to work relentlessly, I introduced the task, answered a few questions and then wandered around the classroom, checking in with each student.
I teach Computer Science, so seeing one of my students reading a book instead of working on his computer wasn't exactly what I expected. A few months ago I would almost certainly have asked him to put it away and get on with the lesson. Instead, I stopped and asked what he was reading. He turned the cover towards me. Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse.
What I Had Failed to See
I'll admit, I was surprised. Not because he was reading, but because of what he was reading.
Steppenwolf isn't the sort of novel most teenagers casually pick up. First published in 1927, it follows Harry Haller, a man who feels divided between the person the world expects him to be and the person he knows himself to be. It is a novel about identity, belonging and the struggle to remain true to yourself in a world that constantly asks you to become someone else.
As we spoke about the book, I found myself seeing this young man differently. He had always struck me as intelligent, but I'd spent far too long viewing him through the lens of his behaviour. Then I looked again at the book in his hands, and suddenly his choice of book made sense — not because I assumed his life mirrored the novel, but because I recognised the kinds of questions that draw someone towards a book like Steppenwolf. For the first time, I wasn't looking at the student who regularly found himself in trouble. I was looking at a thoughtful young man trying to find his place in the world without losing himself in the process.
The conversation lasted only a few minutes. It gave me something to think about for the rest of the day. As teachers we often talk about seeing the potential in young people. What we don't talk about often enough is how easy it is to mistake behaviour for identity. Behaviour tells us what someone does. It rarely tells us who they are. A reserved student may be carrying enormous courage. A confident student may be deeply insecure. The child who appears disengaged may simply be bored. And the one who is constantly challenging the system may not be rejecting learning at all — he may simply be struggling to find his place within it.
I don't know exactly why he chose Steppenwolf. Perhaps he simply enjoyed Hermann Hesse. Perhaps somebody recommended it. Perhaps he recognised something of himself in Harry Haller. I had my suspicions. What I do know is that his choice of book explained a little about him in a way his behaviour never had. It reminded me that every person carries an inner life that isn't immediately visible. We all carry questions that other people never see, and wrestle with doubts that never make it into conversation.
Often the most interesting thing about a person is the part they never say out loud.
Learning to Live Without Losing Yourself
As I reflected on our conversation, I realised why it had affected me so much. Although our experiences were very different, I recognised something of my own younger self. I wasn't the student who regularly found herself in trouble because I learnt to move through the system differently. Looking back, I think I instinctively stood slightly outside it, observing it more than becoming absorbed by it.
From quite a young age I could see there was a game being played. Not a game with winners and losers, but an invisible game built around expectations: this is how success looks, this is what a good life looks like, this is what you should want, this is how you should behave. Most people step onto the board without ever noticing the game exists.
I found myself watching it. Curious. Not rebellious, not cynical — simply curious. Why did so many people chase goals they had never consciously chosen? Why did certain careers command admiration while others didn't? Why did so many people seem afraid to ask whether the path they were following was actually their own?
I learnt how to move through those systems, but I never completely believed they defined who I was. Looking back, I think that's what I recognised in that young man. Not that we were the same — we weren't — but I recognised someone trying to find his own way through a system without losing himself in the process. School is simply the first system we encounter. Later come universities, workplaces, relationships, society itself. The systems change, but the challenge remains remarkably similar: how do we live in the world without allowing the world to define who we are?
That question has followed me for much of my life. Eventually it became the question at the heart of my book, How Did I Get Here? The title isn't really asking how we reached a certain age. It's asking something much deeper — how did we slowly become someone we no longer recognise?
The answer, I believe, isn't usually one dramatic event. It's thousands of tiny moments: the promotion we accepted because it seemed sensible, the hobby we abandoned because there wasn't enough time, the opinion we kept to ourselves because it was easier not to disagree, the dream we packed away because adulthood demanded something more practical.
None of those decisions seem significant on their own. Taken together, however, they slowly shape a life. And one day we wake up wondering why something feels missing.
When Do We Lose Our Authentic Self?
As I drove home that afternoon, I couldn't stop thinking about our conversation. It brought back something I've turned over for many years. The question isn't really about geography or circumstance. It's about identity. How do we reach a point in life where we look in the mirror and wonder how we became this version of ourselves?
I don't believe it happens overnight, nor do I think it's something we consciously choose. It happens gradually. As children, we naturally want to belong. At school we discover what earns praise and what attracts criticism. As teenagers we become acutely aware of fitting in. As adults we learn how to succeed at work, support our families, pay our mortgages and meet the expectations placed upon us.
None of these things are wrong. In fact, most of them are necessary. Responsibility is part of growing up. Commitment matters. Keeping our promises matters. Looking after those we love matters. The problem isn't that we take on responsibilities. The problem is that, somewhere along the way, many of us stop checking whether the life we're building is still aligned with the person we really are.
We become known as the reliable one, the successful one, the sensible one. The parent. The manager. The teacher. The provider. Slowly, our roles begin to replace our identity. Without noticing, we become experts at meeting expectations while forgetting to ask ourselves a simple question. Is this still me?
Perhaps that's why so many people experience a low-grade restlessness in midlife. From the outside everything appears fine — the career, the family, the house, the routine. Yet something feels absent. Not because life has gone wrong, but because we've gradually lost touch with the person we were before the world told us who we ought to become.
Carl Jung and the Second Half of Life
Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung believed this wasn't a failure. He believed it was part of being human. According to Jung, the first half of life is largely concerned with building our place in the world. We establish careers, relationships, families and identities that enable us to function within society. It's an outward journey. We learn how to contribute, how to belong, how to survive.
But Jung believed there comes a point when the direction begins to change. Instead of looking outward, we begin looking inward. Instead of asking, What do I need to achieve?, we begin asking, Who have I become? He called this process individuation. It's a term that can sound rather intimidating, but I think the idea behind it is beautifully simple. To me, individuation means finding our way back to ourselves. Not becoming someone new. Not reinventing ourselves. Not throwing away our responsibilities or pretending the first half of life didn't matter. It means gently reclaiming the parts of ourselves we set aside while we were busy building a life — the curiosity we abandoned because it wasn't practical, the creativity we convinced ourselves wasn't good enough, the dreams we dismissed because they didn't fit the path we believed we were supposed to follow.
In many ways, I think Jung was describing something we've all experienced. Life asks a lot of us. Sometimes it asks so much that we begin adapting ourselves to meet its demands. The danger isn't that we change — of course we change. The danger is that we forget there was ever another version of us. If you're interested in Jung's thinking, I've explored this further in my article Carl Jung and the Unlived Life.
The Gift of Growing Older
This is why I no longer see ageing as something to dread. Of course there are losses. There always will be — people we love, health, time, opportunities that have passed. It would be naïve to pretend otherwise. But alongside those losses comes a gift that we rarely acknowledge. Perspective.
For the first time in decades, many of us begin living with a little more freedom than we realised was possible. Not necessarily financial freedom. Not freedom from responsibility. Something more internal than that — the freedom to question, the freedom to choose differently, the freedom to stop chasing things that no longer matter, the freedom to become curious again.
Perhaps that's why so many people take up painting after retirement. Or finally learn a language, walk the Camino, return to university, begin writing, discover philosophy, or find faith. To an outside observer these activities can seem unrelated. I don't think they are. I think they're all expressions of the same desire — the desire to reconnect with ourselves, to rediscover interests that existed long before life became dominated by work, responsibilities and expectations.
I've written before about creating more freedom in later life, and increasingly I believe that freedom begins long before money enters the conversation. It begins the moment we stop asking, What do people expect from me? And start asking, What feels true to me now? That doesn't mean abandoning responsibility. It means living with greater honesty. It means recognising that the second half of life isn't simply about slowing down. It's about waking up.
If this idea sits with you, you might also enjoy How to Create More Freedom in Life After 50, where I explore the different ways freedom can shape the second half of life beyond finances or retirement.
