In a world brimming with stories, experiences, and inherited habits, the idea of being “original” often feels like an enigma. From the moment we are born, we absorb the world around us: the way our parents smile, the songs our friends hum, the books that shape our thoughts, and even the mannerisms we unconsciously adopt. It’s as though our lives are collages made of fragments we collect, little pieces of others that we string together to make sense of who we are. So, how can we claim to be original when everything we do seems to be borrowed?
Perhaps originality isn’t about creating something entirely new but about how we weave these borrowed elements into a fabric that is uniquely ours. After all, no two people stitch their stories the same way.
The habits we pick up often serve as bridges to others. When you laugh like your best friend or cook a recipe your grandmother once taught you, you’re not just imitating; you’re connecting. It’s a silent acknowledgment of the people who have left their imprints on you. We mimic because we yearn to belong, to be seen, and to be understood.
Isn’t everything we do, in some way, a way to be loved a little more? The clothes we wear, the words we choose, the way we navigate social norms—all are subtle ways of saying, “I hope this makes me worthy of your affection.” And there’s no shame in that. At its core, this yearning is profoundly human.
Consider the greatest artists, thinkers, and innovators throughout history. They didn’t create in a vacuum. Shakespeare borrowed plots from older tales. Van Gogh was inspired by Japanese art. Steve Jobs admired the minimalism of Braun designs. Originality, then, is not about being untouched by influence but about transforming those influences into something that feels fresh and deeply personal.
What makes you original is not the absence of imitation but the authenticity you bring to it. The way you interpret a melody, the emotions you pour into your words, the unique perspective you add to a shared experience—these are the marks of your individuality.
Being original doesn’t mean being radically different; it means being true. It’s about acknowledging the influences that shape you while having the courage to express your own voice. Authenticity is not perfection; it’s vulnerability. It’s admitting, “Yes, I am a patchwork of the people I’ve loved, the books I’ve read, the places I’ve been—but this is how I choose to wear my story.”
In the end, perhaps the question isn’t whether we’re original but whether we’re living in a way that honors the influences we’ve embraced. Are we expressing gratitude for the hands that shaped us? Are we showing kindness to others who are just as much a collection of borrowed habits?
When we stop chasing originality as an abstract ideal and start embracing authenticity, we allow ourselves to truly live. And maybe, just maybe, we discover that being loved a little more starts with loving ourselves enough to be real.
So, if you find yourself questioning your originality, remember this: You are a mosaic, and every piece tells a story. The beauty of borrowed things lies in the way they come together to form something that has never existed before—you.
And that is more than enough.
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Inspiration for this essay: Someone pointed out that I blow on my fingers after touching something hot, just like my mom. A little habit I never gave a second thought about suddenly had me questioning just how much of my life is a patchwork of things I’ve picked up along the way.