I used to think I had to become someone worth remembering. - By Damielle Rovelyn V. Valera

Written By: Damielle Rovelyn V. Valera

Category: Essay

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In her poignant essay, "I used to think I had to become someone worth remembering," Damielle Rovelyn V. Valera delves into the intricacies of personal growth and self-worth. Featured in the Essay category of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar, this reflective piece invites readers to explore the profound realization that life's true significance often lies in the quiet, everyday moments that shape us. Damielle's insightful narrative resonates with a universal longing to find meaning and value in our own unique journeys.

About the Work

Damielle Rovelyn V. Valera's essay is a contemplative exploration of the human desire to leave a lasting mark. Through introspective prose, she examines her own journey of collecting experiences and realizations, ultimately discovering that significance can be found in the tender interactions and quiet contributions that define our lives. Her writing style is thoughtful and eloquent, offering vivid imagery and a heartfelt message about understanding the true value of being present and genuine.

I used to think I had to become someone worth remembering.

Original Submission by Damielle Rovelyn V. Valera

I used to think I had to become someone worth remembering.

Not famous, necessarily. Not extraordinary in the way people put on posters or write about in newspapers. I only wanted to become the kind of person whose existence left some evidence behind; that I had done something, made something, changed something. I thought a life had to accumulate proof before it could be called meaningful.

So I kept collecting things.

Projects. Pages. Photographs. Names. Little responsibilities that somehow became mine. Ideas scribbled at midnight. Things made from nothing but too much sugar drinks and the stubborn belief that if I cared enough, I could make them better.

I learned how to be useful.

I learned how to organize the mess, remember the details, stay awake a little longer, fix what could still be fixed. I became good at being the person who could be counted on. There was comfort in it, in knowing that if something needed doing, I could do it.

For a long time, I mistook this for becoming.

I thought perhaps adulthood was simply the gradual construction of a person impressive enough to justify all the years spent becoming them.

But nobody tells you how strange it feels to reach a place you once desperately wanted to reach and realize that the person you imagined waiting there does not exist.

There is no final version.

No morning when you wake up and suddenly understand what you are supposed to do with the rest of your life.

No certificate that says: there. You have become enough.

Instead, there are still unfinished drafts. Unanswered questions. Things you thought you would know by now. There are days when I feel sixteen and forty at the same time, convinced that I am far too young to know anything and somehow already too late.

And sometimes, I grieve for all the people I thought I would become.

The artist who would spend zir days making beautiful things.

The writer who would fill notebooks without ever running out of words.

The person who would leave everything behind and begin somewhere unfamiliar.

The person who would be fearless.

The person who would know exactly what ze wanted.

The person who would never doubt zirself again.

I used to think choosing one life meant killing all the others.

That every road not taken became a little ghost, following behind me and asking what might have happened if I had turned left instead.

But lately, I have begun to wonder if perhaps those lives are not lost at all.

Perhaps the artist still lives in the way I notice color.

Perhaps the writer lives in the way I cannot experience something without wanting to put it into words.

Perhaps the person who wanted to leave taught me how to imagine elsewhere.

Perhaps the frightened one taught me tenderness.

Perhaps none of them disappeared.

Perhaps they simply became part of the way I inhabit this one life.

And maybe that is what growing older actually is: not becoming one person, but learning how to carry all the people you have been without apologizing for the contradictions.

I am still ambitious.

I still want to make beautiful things.

I still want my work to matter.

I still want to leave something behind.

But I am beginning to understand that there is a difference between wanting to matter and needing to be remembered.

Because the people who have mattered most to me are rarely the ones who had the most impressive things to say about themselves.

They were the ones who remembered.

The one who noticed I was quiet.

The one who knew when to stay.

The one who made room at the table.

The one who listened to a story they had already heard because they knew I needed to tell it again.

The one who sent food without asking.

The one who remembered the little things I thought nobody noticed.

The one who made an ordinary afternoon feel safe enough to remember years later.

Funny, isn’t it?

I spent so much time thinking a meaningful life had to be visible.

And yet, when I look back at my own life, the moments I treasure most are almost impossible to photograph.

A conversation in a hallway.

A laugh that lasted too long.

Someone saying my name in exactly the right way.

A cup left beside me because they knew I would forget to get one.

The quiet relief of realizing I didn’t have to explain myself.

The strange warmth of being understood before I had found the words.

None of these things will become monuments.

And still, they have built me.

Perhaps this is why I no longer believe that a life has to be extraordinary to be significant.

Perhaps significance is quieter than that.

Perhaps it is the way you make a room feel when you enter it.

The way someone remembers you four years later because you were kind to them on an ordinary Tuesday.

The way a sentence you once said stays with someone long after you have forgotten saying it.

The way something you made becomes useful to a person you will never meet.

The way your presence becomes part of another person’s understanding of what it means to be loved, or seen, or believed in.

We are always leaving pieces of ourselves behind.

Most of them without knowing.

A phrase.

A habit.

An act of kindness.

A ridiculous joke.

A lesson.

A little courage passed from one person to another without anyone realizing that anything was being handed over.

Maybe that is enough.

Maybe I don’t need to build something that survives me.

Maybe it is enough to build something that helps someone while I am here.

Maybe I don’t need everyone to remember my name.

Maybe it is enough that there are a few people who will remember how I made them feel.

And perhaps that is the life I want now.

Not necessarily the biggest one.

Not the most impressive one.

Not one that looks extraordinary from a distance.

I want a life that feels tender up close.

A life with work I can believe in and people I can come home to.

A life where I am still making things simply because making them makes the world feel a little more bearable.

A life full of conversations that run past midnight, meals that take too long, unfinished books, bad jokes, sudden road trips, familiar cafés, handwritten notes, and people who know when I am pretending to be fine.

I want to keep becoming without treating who I am now as merely an unfinished draft.

I want to stop looking at the present as something I must survive before I become the person I am supposed to be.

Because perhaps this is the person.

Perhaps there is no later version coming to save me from the uncertainty of being alive.

Perhaps I am already standing inside the life I once hoped I would have.

And maybe I have been so busy trying to make it meaningful that I forgot to notice that it already is.

There will always be another thing to accomplish.

Another page to write.

Another project to finish.

Another version of myself I could chase if I wanted to.

But tonight, I think I would rather stay.

Stay long enough to notice the people beside me.

Stay long enough to laugh.

Stay long enough to make something badly and try again tomorrow.

Stay long enough to become familiar with the person looking back at me in the mirror, not because she has finally become extraordinary, but because she has finally stopped demanding that she can be.

I used to think the goal was to become someone worth remembering.

Now, I think I would rather become someone worth being.

Someone who notices.

Someone who creates.

Someone who loves fiercely and learns when to rest.

Someone who leaves things a little softer than ze found them.

And if, years from now, there are only a handful of people who remember me, I think I will be alright with that.

Let them remember the small things.

The laughter.

The stories.

The things I made with my hands.

The way I cared too much sometimes.

The way I kept trying.

The way I showed up.

The way I made room.

The way I loved.

Because perhaps a life does not have to leave monuments.

Perhaps it only has to leave fingerprints.

Small evidence that, for a little while, someone was here.

And cared enough to touch the world gently.

Maybe that is the kind of life I have been looking for all along.

Not a life that proves I was important.

Just a life, when I finally reach its end, allows me to look back and say:

Yes.

That was mine.

And I was here.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices in creative writing. The competition encourages writers worldwide to share their unique perspectives and stories across various categories, including Poetry, Short Story, Essay, and Creative Writing. It is a space where creativity and originality are honored, and writers are given the opportunity to connect with a global audience.

Thank you, Damielle Rovelyn V. Valera, for your heartfelt contribution to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your essay, "I used to think I had to become someone worth remembering," provides a deeply moving exploration of what it means to find value in the ordinary. Your words remind us of the beauty in life's quiet moments and the importance of authenticity. We appreciate your willingness to share your journey with us.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.