10:43 pm - greatness gracious

I’d like to begin this blog by saying that I am very very jet-lagged as I write it, so forgive me if this becomes a tangled ribbon of thoughts. I’ll do better, I promise. 

Anyways, welcome to my mind! Don’t get lost. 

Admittedly, I have a bit of a shopping addiction. And even more admittedly, because I am surrounded by people who own designer things, I have learned how to recognize luxury from fifty feet away. To confront an impending money-losing spiral, I developed a ritual sophomore year. Before I bought anything, I would pause and ask myself a question:

Do I actually want this thing? Or do I want people to see that I have it?

The frightening part is not that the question works. It’s how well it works.

It makes me realize…. I’m no better than the white guy drinking matcha while pretending to read feminist literature. I’m performative.

Performativeness is such an odd little phenomenon. It’s in peer pressure. It’s in micro-trends. It’s in my shopping habits. And perhaps most unbecoming, it is in ambition.

During admitted student weekends and group chats, I watched students joke about shutting down their nonprofits the second college applications were over. They laughed about it casually, almost proudly. It’s a joke because of how common it is. 

I’ve always thought: if every high school student actually continued the organizations they claimed were their life’s mission, the world would probably be incredible. It might look like the good part of Meet the Robinsons! Bake them cookies, high schoolers! (that wasn't that funny but i hope somebody understands the reference)

Instead, so much of what we do feels transactional. We post about climate change not because we spent nights worrying about rising oceans, but because we want people to perceive us as compassionate. We launch nonprofits about educational inequality not because we spend hours crying over each student, but because we want colleges to admire our good citizenship. We attach morality to visibility.

And I'm not saying this from a pedestal. If anything, I say it with shame because I recognize myself in all of it.

I am so very performative.

I love being admired. I love praise—I follow it hungrily. I chase top schools, medals, ribbons, leadership titles. I pretend it is entirely about “passion” or “opportunity,” but if I am honest, a large part of me simply wants applause. I want tangible proof that I am exceptional. I want to walk into a room and have people think, wow.

But lately I’ve begun wondering: in the pursuit of being great, do we forget to be good? 

I’ve seen it in myself—achievement can begin to hollow itself out. You become so focused on appearing impressive. We’re obsessed with what we’re becoming—a world champion, a famous actor, a rich consultant—but we forget who we’re becoming.  Every moment turns into material. Every accomplishment becomes content. 

I think what scares me most is the possibility that performativeness slowly erodes sincerity until we cannot tell the difference anymore. Maybe that is why college feels strangely important to me now. It’s a completely new beginning. 

In high school, life often felt engineered toward achievement. And no, I’m not against achievement. It pushes us to be better. But I am against achievement that erases identity. On a call with an old friend after my college run, she said “You’re being more Emma lately”. It was a weird thing to say, but I knew what she meant. During my pursuit for “greatness”, I had lost my usual presence, my usual intentionality, my usual creativity, my usual time with family, and my usual thoughtfulness. I was so honed in on one thing, I forgot about everything else. I apologize to family and friends I may have ignored in my obsession to be impressive. 

So, in college, I want to be good. 

Yes, I want to still achieve. I will do my darndest best. But, I also want to remember to do good things that don’t appear on resumes, that are never going to be seen by others. I want to become the kind of friend who remembers small things — birthdays, coffee orders, when someone sounded sad three weeks ago. I want to talk to my parents more often instead of treating them like background characters. I want to go to office hours because I genuinely care about learning, not just grades. I want to create things that nobody may ever applaud: thoughtful conversations, dependable friendships, moments of generosity.

Maybe goodness is less glamorous than greatness. It is practically invisible. It’ll never come with medals or acceptance letters embossed in gold. But I think goodness leaves behind something more durable. After all, people remember how you made them feel long after they forget your titles.

So now, before buying something or saying something or doing something, I don’t ask: “Will this impress people?” 

Instead, I ask: Would I still choose this if nobody ever knew?

I hope my answer will be yes.

Cheers,

Emma