I have many identities; like a DJ mixing tracks, I shift between rhythms and environments, adapting to the moment while staying true to my underlying beat. In middle school, I was the nerd who always had a fun fact ready for any occasion, usually one nobody asked for but everyone somehow found interesting. At gatherings, I was the unofficial IT customer support, connecting everyone to the Wi-Fi network and fixing my relatives’ phones. And on the basketball court, I was the guy who played with more heart than actual skill, hustling for rebounds like a starving lion hunting his prey.

Ever since I was born, I’ve had a carefree spirit, always chasing the next big idea. Even my name was chosen out of the blue; my dad flipped open a baby book, pointed at the first name at the top of the page, and said, “I like that one.” And just like that, I was Aaron. As an ESFP, my childhood was a mix of curiosity and chaos, powered by a waterfall of questions and a bucket list as large as Niagara Falls. On Monday, I wanted to be an astronaut bouncing on Mars; on Tuesday, I was convinced I was about to be the next Jeremy Lin. My parents tried to support me throughout this entire process, whether that be helping to build a rocket ship out of a plastic bottle, vinegar, and baking soda, or joking that “I would never return home.”

As I aged into my teenage years, the one constant was the insatiable desire to explore more about the world. It could be something as simple as actively conversing with complete strangers on the metro, studying the intricacies of speed mental math, or hotly debating which fast-food chain had the best fries; at the end of the day, I thrived in chaotic situations, where life felt a little more exciting. This restless energy defined my childhood as I was never just one thing, which is something that I appreciated about myself. Instead of confining myself to a simple box, I could be the kid who spent days perfecting a crossover in my long driveway, but also the kid who doom scrolled Wikipedia, trying to learn more about aliens and time travel. Through it all, it allowed me to be able to argue passionately about something as random as why curly fries are superior to crinkle-cut, then pivot into a deep conversation about what it really means to be successful.

Since I have become a young adult, I feel like I have unlocked the superpower of feeling at home between cultures, between friend groups, and between the expectations others had versus the real me. Coming from an Asian-American background, where school felt completely different from home, I developed the skill to effortlessly move between two planets with the caveat that I never felt like I belonged in either. At home, my parents spoke Mandarin, and I understood it well enough to catch every joke and lecture, but when I responded, it was always in English. I loved the traditions, the food, the family values, but I also loved the independence and individualism I saw in American culture. For me, the adventure of balancing my different personalities never became something I masted, but something I embraced and eventually found fun. When I was at school, I talked with some friends about the odds we had on the SuperBowl, the characters in “To Kill a Mockingbird”, the cutest girls in the grade, and the newest trending video game. Then, I would turn it all around and reflect with other friends on grades, life as a second-generation immigrant, my sister’s traditional Chinese dance recital, and how long to boil dumplings. My biggest desire was to be the guy who could talk to anyone, not because I was trying to fit in, but because I genuinely found people interesting. Whether it was the first time we had met or the thousandth time I talked about my math test, my social battery always had something new to add.

And then there was family, the one constant, the anchor that kept me grounded no matter how many different roles I played elsewhere. Being the oldest sibling came with its own set of responsibilities, some unspoken, some very loudly spoken thanks to my mom. I was the test run, the one who had to figure things out first so my younger siblings had a blueprint to follow, or, more often, a list of mistakes not to repeat. I took that role seriously, even when it felt like I was Atlas, with the world resting on my shoulders. However, I took pride in this, knowing that in other places, other time periods, and other lives entirely, other sisters were not granted the same opportunities that my sister received and deserved.

To all my friends who really want to know who I am, I would tell you that it depends. It depends on the day, the moment, the people that I’m with. It depends on my parents’ resilience in crossing the Pacific Ocean alone, depends on the energy my friends provide me in our first basketball game, depends on the numerous places and the thousands of conversations that drove me forever. My goal was never to fit in, but to stand out and weave my unique tapestry of experiences into something that allows them to really understand who I am.