Tell me about Yourself

 It’s a random Tuesday evening, and summer is doing what summer does.

We’re being warned to stay safe from heat waves that could possibly kill us, and somewhere in the midst of that, I’m battling a heat wave of my own; except this one is in my mind.

I find myself questioning: Who am I?

It’s a question they ask often when you first meet someone, particularly in a job interview.

Tell me about yourself.

Lately, I’ve been struggling to answer it.

Who am I without giving you my job titles?

I’ve worked in media. I’ve been a journalist. I’ve worked in events and corporate spaces. I’ve been an executive assistant. I’ve worked at the front desk. I’ve done sales and marketing. I’ve managed people, planned things, written things, sold things, fixed things and figured things out.

But somehow, I’ve been told that those things are not meant to define me.

So what does?

I struggle to find one genuine sentence—maybe two—that says: This is who I am.

Because, in this context, that is essentially what they want to know.

Except they don’t really want to know.

They don’t want to know that, at heart, I’m a writer. A poet, maybe, though I rarely say that out loud. That I like to create. That I love taking something from an idea scribbled somewhere in my mind and watching it come to life.

I like the beginning of things.

I like the messy middle too, even when I complain about it.

And I love the final result—not just because it is finished, but because I know what it took to get there. Every project takes me on a journey. Every event, every piece of writing, every idea I’ve brought to life has taught me something about myself.

Maybe that is part of who I am.

But lately, I’ve been feeling like an imposter.

Life is happening, and life comes with responsibilities. Bills do not care about purpose. Rent does not wait for you to find yourself. Adulthood does not pause while you figure out what you were put on this earth to do.

So I go into these spaces and try to convince people that I belong there.

That I am the right person for the job.

That my experience makes sense.

That my journey has been intentional.

And sometimes, while I’m trying to convince them, there is a voice in my head asking:

Do you even believe this yourself?

Because I don’t know if this is where I’m meant to be.

I don’t know if this is what I’m meant to do.

I don’t know.

Maybe I should have started by saying that I am 33 years old. I don’t have children. And I have no idea what the next five years of my life will look like.

There. I said it.

I don’t have a five-year plan.

I don’t know where I will live. I don’t know exactly what my career will look like. I don’t know which version of myself I’m becoming.

And at 33, that feels like something I’m not supposed to admit.

Somewhere along the way, we were told that by now we should have it together. A career path. A plan. A title that makes sense when we introduce ourselves. A confident answer when someone asks where we see ourselves in five years.

I have none of those things.

I am standing at a crossroads, and every road looks possible.

That should feel exciting.

Some days, it does.

Other days, it is terrifying.

The world itself does not make it easier. There are earthquakes and fires and heat waves. People are dying. People are losing everything. And somehow, I am expected to wake up, answer emails, prepare for interviews and continue with my life as though nothing is happening.

As though the world isn’t constantly reminding us how fragile everything is.

Sometimes I wonder if God is coming for His world.

And then I stop.

I breathe.

I remind myself to be grateful.

I remind myself of what I have. I tell myself to be content. To appreciate this life while I am living it. I remind myself that gratitude matters and that I cannot spend my entire life staring at what is missing.

But gratitude does not always erase confusion.

You can be grateful and still feel lost.

You can recognize your blessings and still want more for yourself.

You can love parts of your life and still wonder whether you are living the right one.

And so, I return to the question.

Who am I?

I’m Tasha-Gaye Miller.

But who is she?

I don’t know.

I don’t know exactly what she wants.

I know what she has done. I know what she is good at. I know what people call her when they need something written, planned, organized, fixed or brought to life.

But I’m not sure I know her outside of being needed.

That is a difficult thing to admit.

There is no one I feel I can tell without becoming too vulnerable. Without wondering whether I will be judged. I know everyone is going through something. I know struggle is not unique to me.

But this is mine.

The anxiety that comes from being asked a simple question.

The blankness in my brain.

The strange experience of knowing that I have lived 33 years, done so many things, survived so many versions of myself—and still sometimes needing a machine to help me explain who I am.

My tendency to rely on AI to tell me who I am because, somehow, it feels easier.

Because this tool remembers the job titles. The projects. The goals. The things I have said I wanted.

Sometimes it feels like it knows me better than I know myself.

And that realization is uncomfortable.

Because perhaps I have spent so much time trying to become understandable to other people that I have forgotten how to sit with myself.

No résumé.

No interview.

No audience.

No need to make my life sound impressive.

Just me.

I keep thinking about ways to get out of this place in my mind, but nothing seems to work. I feel out of options. I feel like I am at the end of a chapter, except I don’t know which book to open next.

Which course do I start?

Which job do I take?

Which dream do I follow?

Which version of myself deserves the chance to become real?

I don’t know.

And maybe, for once, I will resist the urge to force an answer.

Maybe I am not at the end of the book.

Maybe I am not even at the end of the chapter.

Maybe I am simply on a blank page, and I have mistaken the absence of words for the absence of a story.

I still cannot tell you exactly who Tasha-Gaye Miller is.

But I know she is still here.

Still writing.

Still creating.

Still questioning.

Still becoming.

And perhaps, for now, that is the most honest answer I can give.

Tell me about yourself.

I’m still finding out.