The View from Here
May 2026…
The other day, I found myself doing what I often do: observing my own life. I was sitting around a table with friends, maps scattered between us, as we planned our summer travel adventures. It was then that I remembered something I’d somehow forgotten: despite everything, my life is actually pretty good. Not perfect. Not without complications. But good.
And in that moment, I felt resentful of myself for all the time I’d spent lamenting the parts of my life that weren’t.
Most of my recent problems are admittedly self-created. Or at the very least, amplified by boredom, overthinking, and some subconscious need to struggle. I’m not naturally an anxious person, but I do carry a certain existential anxiety that undoubtedly contributed to what I jokingly refer to as my “midlife crash out” a couple of years ago. The classic spiral: Is this it? What’s the purpose? What does any of this mean?
Heavy questions for someone sitting poolside with a green juice and a Pilates membership. To anyone looking in, she seems to have it all figured out. Not a care in the world, right?
When I compare my life now to my childhood, it almost feels as though that former life belonged to someone else entirely. In some ways, maybe it did. There’s a nostalgia that creeps in from time to time, though I’m never entirely sure what it’s attached to. It’s not my hometown; I somewhat despise it. It’s not homesickness for my family either, considering we aren’t particularly close.
I think maybe I mourn a version of childhood and adolescence that never fully existed in the first place. The fantasy of it. The idea of safety, belonging, and simplicity. Not necessarily the reality.
I don’t lie about my background, but it rarely comes up. People tend to fill in the blanks based on where I live now, how I present myself, and the life I’ve built. I imagine many assume I grew up much like the adolescents I counsel today. That I came from an affluent family, attended prestigious schools, and always had the kinds of opportunities that seem to fit the person they see now.
When I look in the mirror, I can understand why people make that assumption.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking so much lately about identity, not just the one we’ve lived, but the one other people imagine for us.
Lately, I’ve noticed how many writers online use pseudonyms. Pen names. Entire alternate identities. Not that “LC” isn’t already a softened version of myself, but it’s still tethered to my real identity in a way a completely fictional name would not be. There’s something incredibly liberating about the idea of writing anonymously. No expectations. No personal history attached. No one quietly trying to piece together who inspired what.
Sometimes I fantasize about archiving this entire site and starting over somewhere else under a different name. A secret little corner of the internet that no one knows belongs to me.
Ironically, hardly anyone I know reads this anyway. It’s mostly strangers. Random people from all over the country and, occasionally, other parts of the world.
Hello out there!
Maybe that’s why the idea of a pen name feels so alluring. Not because I want to become someone else. I already have.
Maybe what I really crave isn’t anonymity at all. Maybe it’s the freedom to write without anyone trying to reconcile who I am now with who they think I used to be.
Something to consider.
Bien à vous,
LC
Vibe with Me LC 