Coreless: Losing Myself in the Glass of Perfection

By Nhi Nguyen / Spring 2025

There is a certain time in the morning, the sun rises and shines, Geisel’s window turns into a mirror, and I can actually see myself in it. I sit at a table by the window on level 5, watching the UCSD campus students in sweatshirts, coffee in hand, the world moving, unaware. There’s my face, ghosted over the waking campus-sunlight, glass, and me, all layered together. At first glance? I look like I have it together. Calm. Compose. Maybe even confident. But the longer I keep my eyes on that reflection, the more it slips away. Who is that, really? Not me. Not quite. Just a surface—polished by everyone else’s hopes, warped by the morning light. Hollow, if I’m honest. I feel like glass. Transparent. Empty inside.

I scroll through Instagram-habit, compulsion, whatever. The feed is a parade: internships, perfect skin, sunrise hikes, someone’s “study grind” at the same library I’m in. I double-tap, scroll, double-tap again. My own face, filtered, floats by in my story from last week. I don’t remember how I felt when I took it. Maybe nothing. Maybe tired. Maybe just... empty. I check my color-coded Google calendar, packed, overstuffed, a monument to ambition. Lectures, club meetings, group project deadlines, and volunteer shifts. Every hour mapped. I chase the next thing, and the next. If I stop, even for a second, I feel it– the panic, the sense that someone, somewhere, is doing more, being more. I am not enough. Never enough.

This is the choreography of achievement. It’s not just about grades, not anymore. It’s about being everywhere, all at once. The right classes, the right friends, the right résumé. Social media is the scoreboard. Every post is proof: I am thriving. I am worthy. I am not falling behind. But the more I try to keep up, the more invisible I feel. The real me-the one who craves a nap, who aches for home, who sometimes just wants to disappear into silence-gets buried. Lost somewhere behind the windowpane. What’s left is a version I built for everyone else: sharp edges, bright smile, always switched on. I keep going, even when my body begs me to stop. The tiredness? It’s not just in my head anymore. It’s in my joints, my muscles, my bones. I feel it everywhere.

Instagram is both a stage and a trap. I scroll before I even get out of bed. Everyone’s life looks perfect: internships at Google, weekend getaways, gym selfies with motivational captions. I compare every detail– my breakfast isn’t that photogenic, my desk isn’t that tidy, my last post didn’t get as many likes as I hoped. If my life isn’t worth sharing, is it worth living? The thought is ridiculous, but it lingers.

I take dozens of photos to get the right angle. Rewrite captions until they sound effortless. Filter out anything that might show weakness. I crop out the clutter, the puffy eyes, the cold coffee, and unfinished food. My Instagram? It’s a museum– every post carefully arranged, every flaw erased. Sometimes I scroll through my own feed and wonder, who is that girl? She looks happy. She looks perfect. She’s not me-not really. The more I edit, the more I lose touch. The space between my screen and my real life? It’s become a canyon. I’m on one side, my online self is on the other. We barely wave anymore. I am all surface, no substance–a pane of glass, polished and empty. It happens slowly, almost without noticing. I stop asking myself what I want—only what’s expected. I join clubs I don’t care about, take classes I think will look impressive, and say yes to every opportunity, even when I’m drowning. My favorite books gather dust. My sketchbook stays closed. I forget what my own laughter sounds like when it isn’t meant for someone else’s approval.

Sometimes, late at night, I look in the mirror and feel a wave of sadness I can’t explain. I don’t recognize the person staring back. I am a collection of other people’s dreams, a mosaic of borrowed ambitions. My identity has become a costume, and I’m terrified to take it off.

The worst part is the loneliness. When everyone is performing, it’s hard to know who’s being real. I have conversations with friends where we both pretend everything is fine, even as we’re both falling apart. Vulnerability feels dangerous in a world that rewards perfection.

There’s a week-midterms, club events, and a group project that’s falling apart. I sleep less and less, running on caffeine and adrenaline. My grades started to slide. Panic digs its claws in– tight, relentless. One night, after hours of pretending I’m fine, I’m still in the library. The sun’s gone. The window isn’t a mirror anymore– just a sheet of glass, nothing to hide behind. Anyone could look in and see me. Really see me. The world outside is dark, and now, from the walkway, people can see in. I feel exposed, raw, like someone might finally see how hollow I’ve become. Instead of posting another filtered story, I pause. I stare at my reflection, barely visible now, and let myself feel the exhaustion, the fear, the sadness. I pull out my phone, but instead of scrolling, I open my messages and type to Anna—a friend I’ve drifted from, someone who once knew me before all this.

“Hey”, I write, “I know it’s late, but can we talk? I’m not okay”, I continue.

Anna replies almost instantly, which I find very grateful that she did. We meet at a cafe nearby the campus, and both of us were wrapped in hoodies and fatigue. I tell her everything– the pressure, the burnout, the feeling of being invisible behind my own life. She listens, nods, then admits she’s felt the same. We laugh. We cry. I felt some embarrassment, but first time in months, I feel visible. I feel seen. Anna starts talking–she really talks. She admits the panic, the guilt, the nights she just lies awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she’s ever going to be enough for anyone. She talks for me, but most importantly for herself. We got a deal to check in with each other, even when we want to hide. Remind each other that we’re not just grades, not just trophies, not just what we do.

That night, I walked back to the library. The window is transparent now, but I don’t feel exposed. I feel lighter, as if sharing the truth has made me more real. As I gather my things, I see Anna outside, waving at me through the window. I wave back, not as a reflection, but as myself.

The next morning, I also sit by the same window. The sun is rising, and the same reflection of me is on the same window. Yet, this time, I don’t just see the surface, I see more than that. I see the person behind the one who is tired, flawed, but coping. I post a photo of my messy desk, textbooks scattered, coffee stains, and all. The caption is simple: “This is me. Trying my best.” Somehow, I think that is aesthetic– effortlessly aesthetic.

Not as many replies as usual, but those that came are more meaningful. Friends’ message “SO ME LOLL” to say they relate. I learn that being authentically flawed is scarier than being perfectly not-real, but it feels more free.

I begin to set boundaries: saying no to extra commitments, taking breaks from social media, and reaching out to friends and family when I need help. It’s not easy. I admit that it is challenging to breakthrough an old bad habit. The urge to compare, to curate, to strive for perfection is still there and sometimes rises above the surface and shows itself. But slowly, I learn to let the light in, a step at a time– like losing weight– to accept that being human means being imperfect and the fact that I need more time than I anticipated.

The days when I feel like glass: see-through, fragile, and defined by what others expect are still there with me. There are days when I backslide into old habits, when scrolling through Instagram and noticing that familiar ouch of inadequacy, but there are also days when I feel solid, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and recognize the person staring back.

I’m starting to get it. Getting that identity isn’t a trophy you win and keep on a shelf. It’s something you make, bit by bit, every day, but it goes a long way with you. The people you let in, the things you care about, the choices you make when no one’s watching; those are not about being flawless. It’s about real, and myself. Everywhere I look, the world and societal norms scream at me to be perfect; be shiny, be impressive, be untouchable. Nevertheless, all that does is turn me into a reflection of not even myself– empty, echoing, alone, and coreless. I’m exhausted of being glass.

I want something solid. I want to be seen, not just looked at. I want to be real, even if it means being messy. Even if it means being enough just as I am.

I am still learning how to step out from behind the glass, how to live with depth and authenticity. Some days, I still catch myself polishing my reflection, worried about what others see. But I am trying, one day at a time, to build a self that is more than just a surface-a self that is real, imperfect, and enough. And maybe, in the end, that’s what it means to be human: not to be flawless, but to be seen, to be known, and to be loved-not as a reflection, but as a person with a core that cannot be captured in glass.