Reinvention happens without asking

Whether we notice it or not, we reinvent ourselves every day. It might be as small as switching bread brands or outgrowing the music we once blasted in our rooms. The changes are often too subtle to clock in real time, but that doesn’t make them any less real.

Sometimes we don’t realize how much we’ve grown until the past taps us on the shoulder. A recent moment of clarity came as I scrolled through my camera roll, sending old concert photos to my friend Vera from a show we attended six years ago. Her first reaction: “We’ve changed so much—for the better, of course.” That single comment cracked open a wave of reflection. How had I changed? In what ways had I become someone new without even noticing?

The scary part is that our evolution often hides in plain sight. We adapt so gradually that it feels like nothing is changing—until a friend points it out or a throwback photo reminds us who we used to be.

One thing people frequently mention when I speak to them is my accent—or more accurately, the fact that I don’t have much of one. I grew up in the South, surrounded by the classic Southern drawl. I even faked an accent at one point to fit in, tired of being asked if I was from up north or the West Coast. Eventually, I did develop a twang that came and went. But by the time I moved to Chapel Hill for college, it faded. A childhood friend once visited and asked, “What have they done to you?” I wasn’t trying to reinvent myself, but being surrounded by classmates from big cities and different states changed the way I spoke. That shift wasn’t intentional, it just happened.

We absorb more from our environment than we realize. My college roommate and I used to mirror each other’s phrases, unconsciously picking up one another’s speech patterns. That’s reinvention, too—quiet and unplanned.

Change happens in baby steps. We don’t feel ourselves moving, but we are. We’re like science experiments in progress, always evolving. Adaptation plays a big role in this. When I transferred to UNC Chapel Hill, I cried on the drive up. I told my mom, after she’d just paid $10,000 in tuition, that I was probably going to fail. Four years later, I’d graduated. That wasn’t just about academics—it was growth. I didn’t even notice it at the time. But I let go of the fear of change. That, to me, is reinvention.

Is reinvention good or bad? I don’t think it has to be either. It’s natural. It’s necessary. As long as it’s authentic and doesn’t harm anyone, I say embrace it. Nobody wants to stay stagnant—or worse, become a shell of themselves.

Five years ago, I was a college student navigating a global pandemic, unsure of what the future held. My optimism was low, my anxiety high. Today, I’m still a work in progress, but I’m proud of who I’m becoming. Deep down, I’m still the girl I’ve always been—but I’m also not the same.

If it’s been a while since you looked back, take a stroll down memory lane. Open up an old photo album. Reread a journal entry. You might be surprised at the person you’ve become and how far you’ve come without even trying.