Who I Am, Without Your Approval

As the year comes to an end, I always find myself looking back before I look forward. I take stock of who I’ve been, what I’ve done, and who I think I’m supposed to become next. More often than not, the question that stays with me isn’t what’s next? but am I allowed to call myself this yet?

I struggle with accepting where I am now, even when this version of my life was once a dream. Somewhere along the way, I started believing that I had to prove myself before I could name myself. That I needed something visible to justify it. Achievements. Recognition. Validation. A clear sign that would make other people agree that I had earned the right to say, “This is who I am.”

But the longer I sit with that idea, the more fragile it feels.

No one can really take an identity away from me except myself. Not the lack of awards. Not the absence of applause. Not the fact that I’m still learning, still unsure, still figuring things out. The pressure to wait until I’m “enough” before I claim who I am doesn’t come from outside. It comes from within.

I don’t need to win anything to say I’m someone who creates.

I don’t need an audience to say my thoughts matter.

I don’t need to meet someone else’s standard to acknowledge my own.

What I need is acceptance. Not of a finished version of myself, but of the one standing here now.

I came across a quote recently that stayed with me:

“In your 20s, you will be tempted to prove to everyone that you’re doing well in life. It’s important you resist putting on a performance for an audience that isn’t yourself.”

When we’re becoming something — anything — we instinctively look for approval. It’s human. No matter how much I’ve already done, I still second-guess myself. Maybe it’s the people-pleaser in me. Maybe it’s because we’re taught that titles come after achievement. That we’re supposed to amount to something first before we’re allowed to name it.

I used to believe that to be a writer, I had to write a certain way. That I had to sound serious. That I had to always make sense. That I had to read the right books, hit the right word count, follow the rules. Eventually, I realized that while those things help me grow, they were never the gatekeepers of identity. They were tools, not permission slips.

We don’t look at art and ask how it was made before deciding if it’s art. We don’t measure process to determine worth. We look, we feel, and we respond. That’s enough. Art doesn’t exist to conform. Identity doesn’t exist to be approved.

Nothing meaningful starts fully formed.

Calling yourself something isn’t arrogance. It’s honesty. It’s acknowledging the part of you that thinks, feels, questions, and tries — and choosing not to discredit your present just because it doesn’t look like your future yet.

You might not be the version people recognize.

You might not have the platform, the title, or the spotlight.

You might not be the person you imagine yourself becoming someday.

But today, you are something.

You are a filmmaker.

You are a writer.

You are an artist.

Not because you’ve earned it through awards or approval, but because you create, you think, and you carry something you want to share. Identity isn’t granted by an audience. It’s claimed quietly — often before you feel ready.

Acceptance doesn’t mean settling. It means allowing yourself to stand where you are without discrediting it.

You are who you are, right now.

And maybe, as the year ends, that’s enough.

Not proving.

Not earning.

Just finally allowing yourself to stand where you are — and call it yours.

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The FAI-nal Cut

Felicity Amber Ibrado is a Junior Copywriter / Producer for The Film Dream. She is a curious storyteller with a love for human insight, always exploring what makes people and their stories tick. Outside of writing, she’s a gamer at heart and an adventurer, endlessly drawn to discovering new places.

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