Dear Digital Diary

Dear Digital Diary,

can people really change?

When talking about change, most like to relate the idea of growing and changing to metamorphosis. The caterpillar then, when the time is right, cocoons itself in isolation until it is ready to emerge as a butterfly. It is a transformation.

Some assume that people can be like these caterpillars. If you tuck yourself away and really work on yourself — whether that be through fitness, or career, or relationship, or appearance — one can transform into a butterfly.

And the butterfly, well, it’s become a whole new thing. It flies now. It’s spotted with bright, brilliant colors. It migrates with its peers. And so on.

But perhaps I may offer a different perspective: while the caterpillar may have transformed into a butterfly, that was always what it was supposed to be.

A monarch caterpillar becomes a monarch butterfly. At a soul level, it is always meant to become a butterfly. It won’t cocoon itself to become a squirrel. A butterfly is its highest form, so that’s the extent to which it could change.

So back to the original assumption that people can change. Is there a predisposed highest form for each individual that equates to their depth of change?

Since graduating, I’ve been able to catch up with a few people I hadn’t seen in five years. Some I was friends with, some I hardly knew, and some who completely ignored me. There are obvious changes, of course. The outward appearance is a canvas, which is the most visible sign that a caterpillar has become a butterfly.

And while the years have passed, I noticed that, while talking with them, it’s like they hadn’t changed at all. Their personality, their sense of self, had remained exactly as it was.

Granted, I don’t know the inner workings of even my friends’ souls, let alone nearly complete strangers. But I can relate this back to myself.

Let’s say someone from high school talked with me five years after we graduated. My hair is longer and a bit darker. I smile more. I’ve gained a bit of weight, but I don’t have that eating disorder anymore. I have more piercings. I paint my nails maroon most weeks. Compared to the shy girl who wore mom jeans and a side part and never spoke, I seem like a whole new person.

But at my core, I still yearn to be understood. And it really is that deep.

As a kid, I kept my mouth shut. I was very quiet because nobody ever heard me anyway. I didn’t like being perceived as weird and shy because I knew that I was creative and kind.

Now, although I’m more extroverted and share all of my opinions openly, my innermost soul quest appears in other ways. In my need to feel understood, I often quit the second I feel misunderstood. I try not to sabotage relationships as much, but I’m stubborn.

I let people in now, and I’m trying to be more vulnerable. I’ve learned that from relationships in the past. But I’m no longer in certain relationships because I never felt understood.

I don’t think people are capable of a complete 180. We can change our habits, our appearances, our relationships, and even the way we see the world. But I don’t think we can become something entirely different from what we were meant to be. A quiet person can become outspoken. Someone who once struggled to let people in can learn to be vulnerable. But the things that make us who we are don’t simply disappear. They evolve, they find new ways of expressing themselves, and sometimes they become more apparent with age.

The idea is that I changed, yes, but only to the extent of what I had the capacity to change. And I wonder about those people from high school, or my exes, or my family members, or celebrities. How much of who they are now was already there all along?

Maybe people do change, but not into something completely different. Maybe we just become more recognizable versions of ourselves.

I wonder if anyone is actually changing, or if we’re all just becoming more of what we already were.