Okay so, anyone else ever feel like you’re doing a forensic examination of your own existence? Like, I just finished another twelve-hour day – billable hours are excellent, performance metrics are on point – and now it’s 2 AM, and I’m staring at my reflection, trying to pinpoint the exact moment my ‘self’ became an algorithm designed for optimal corporate integration. It’s like I’m a carefully constructed legal brief, all logic and precedent, but the original draft got lost somewhere. It hit me again today, during lunch. Mrs. Henderson from across the street, always impeccably coiffed, made a comment about the “smells” coming from our kitchen. Not in a mean way, just… an observation. Earlier, in the firm cafeteria, I’d eaten a lukewarm salad while my colleagues discussed their weekend yachting plans and the merits of organic kale. My mother had packed me a proper lunch – fragrant with turmeric and cumin, a vibrant green chile paste on the side. I wrapped it back up, said I was “feeling a bit off,” and forced down the tasteless greens. The contrast was… stark. Mrs. Henderson’s observation, then the firm. It’s a constant pressure system. My parents, God bless them, they just don't get it. "Why not just eat your lunch?" my father asked last week. Why not? Because then I'm *other*. And here, being 'other' is an actual impediment to career progression. It’s not written down, but it’s there, a palpable force field. My accent too. It’s mostly gone, I think. Flattened, like a well-ironed shirt. I’ve practiced in the car, on my commute, mimicking the local newscasters, listening to podcasts about… whatever successful local people listen to. Gone are the slight trills, the elongated vowels that give away where I’m from, where my *parents* are from. I hear myself sometimes, a strange, neutral voice, and I don’t quite recognize it. It’s effective. No one raises an eyebrow, no one asks “Where are you *really* from?” It’s a victory, I suppose, this linguistic assimilation. But at what cost? Is this what they mean by a “good fit”? To erase the parts of you that don’t fit? And the food, the accent… it’s the small stuff, you know? But it compounds. Like tiny micro-fractures in a bone, each one insignificant, but collectively, they threaten the whole structure. I caught myself almost saying “acha” instead of “okay” in a client meeting. The terror was visceral. A cold, physiological response. What would that have signaled? That I’m not truly one of *them*? That I’m an interloper, playing dress-up in their fancy office, pretending to understand their world of prep schools and generational wealth? I’m exhausted. The cognitive load required to maintain this constant performance… it feels unsustainable. I’m just… is this it? Is this the trade-off? To succeed, you have to shed parts of yourself until you’re a smooth, polished stone, devoid of distinguishing features? I look at my diploma on the wall, the firm’s name on my business card, and then I look at the packed lunch my mother made, sitting forgotten in the fridge. And I think, who is this person, really? And what did she sacrifice to get here? Am I the only one who feels like they’re living a double life just to exist, just to pay the mortgage on this house in this perfectly manicured suburb where everyone smiles and says “good morning” but never *really* sees you?