Kalia Busick

Second Place Winner in the 2026 Novus Literary Arts Journal High School Creative Writing Contest

“Who are you when no one is looking?” Just the thought of the question brought a lump to my throat. How can you be sure of who you are when you’re posing as everyone else? When you watch coming-of-age movies, the cliques are clear: popular kids, athletes, art kids, and quiet kids. I was in every group, yet didn’t fit neatly into any of them. Like a meal with too much seasoning, I didn’t know what to be.

Identity is a strange thing because when you first think about who you are, there isn’t a question about it. However, while everyone else turned off their lights and drifted to sleep, I lay awake debating who to be the next day. I picked up the habit of studying people’s personalities and recycling their traits to make a “better” version of myself. Growing up, I found it difficult to make friends because I didn’t “fit in” with the other kids. Whether it was because of race, culture, beliefs, or even interests, people always came up with a way to stereotype me. So, the easiest escape was to become someone else.

I was never an outgoing kid, so in 2nd grade, when my mom told us that we were moving, I was thrilled. I thought the switch would be easy. “Maybe I can finally make some friends.” Who was going to tell an eight-year-old that Georgia was nothing like Michigan? My first culture shock came in my 3rd grade classroom when the first thing I heard was the grit of a strong country accent. We definitely weren’t in Holland anymore. Even as a little Wasian kid, I stood out more than anything else in that classroom. I wanted to jump into a conversation, but I couldn’t relate to these kids at all. They grew up feeding chickens and going to the lake; I grew up wondering how many jackets I would need before playing outside. I spent the next few weeks observing. What do these kids like? How can I be their friend? By week three, I finally had the guts to walk up to the group of softball girls I’d been eyeing.

“What do you like to do for fun?”

“Oh, I like running.”

Lie number one: I don’t do cardio. I only said that because I had seen them all playing tag a few days earlier. They asked if I wanted to join the school’s running club, and I obediently said yes. It was either running with them or against them, and right now, they were the only people who stuck by me.

It’s not like I didn’t try to be myself. I’d occasionally drop my interests into conversations, but I either got ignored or made fun of. One day, I brought some of my favorite Lao dishes that my mom had packed the night before. Food is a big deal in a Laotian household; it’s what brings people and communities together. So I thought, surely, it would bring my friends closer to me. Boy, was I wrong. “Why does it smell so gross?” “It looks weird.” “Do you seriously like that?” From that day forward, I begged my mom to pack me a “normal” lunch. My parents tried to brush it off, saying that they were just never exposed to things like that. “They’re just jealous, Kiki.” I don’t want them to be jealous; I want them to be my friends.

I come from a big family, and growing up, our customs never felt “different”; they just felt like home. Until we moved. Suddenly, I realized that I would never truly look or be like any of the girls I was friends with. Sure, I could dress the same, eat the same, even talk the same as them, but I would never have their pale skin, blonde hair, or blue eyes. I kept this mentality even in 7th grade when we moved again: New school, new me. This time, the school was crawling with popular athletes, so I became one. I joined the school’s cheer team, hoping it would help me blend in, but I still didn’t quite fit. I was the only one with glasses, so I got contacts. Everyone had either blonde or highlighted hair, so I booked a hair appointment.

By the time I was halfway through my freshman year, my family decided to flee to Tennessee. But this move was different. There were too many groups to choose from, too many versions of myself that I could be. While my teacher was busy praising Shakespeare, I sat there asking myself, “Who do I want to be?”

“To be or not to be”-that really was the question.

I had spent my whole life trying to piece myself into everyone else’s puzzle but my own. I couldn’t even begin to describe my interests to someone because I didn’t know what they were. How can I start living for me?

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet.” Change my name and I might as well be anyone else. Then it clicked: theatre.

The Jungle Book Jr.: Kalia Busick-Elephant. In 5th grade, I got cast in my first musical. Admittedly, I only auditioned because my friends did, but looking back, it was the most fun I had while being a follower. How ironic. The twisted truth of it was that acting gave me the thrill of becoming someone else without having to face their problems or confront my own. At first, I wondered if it was the right decision; however, as soon as I set foot in the theater, I knew I belonged. Belonging. That was something I never felt before. I marched into the theatre class with my fists clenched and my breath short. “We’ve been waiting for someone like you.” My shoulders dropped, my heartbeat steadied, and a smile crept onto my face. Not the fake smile that I wear so people would let me sit beside them, but a real grin. True happiness. Mr. Ragland sat me down and somehow managed to hear more about me than I even knew about myself. It could have been the people, the feeling of the spotlight, maybe even the costumes, but I think it was the experience as a whole. The acceptance. For once, I could be whoever I wanted to be without judgment.

As the curtain closed on my final play of junior year, I had an epiphany: I had never been so grateful for an experience in my life. “We are going to look back and miss this,” I looked at my best friend, knowing that this cast, this director, and the theatre as a whole changed my life. For the first time, I formed my own identity without borrowed scraps. Theatre didn’t just give me a voice, it helped me use it. These people showed me that offstage, I didn’t need to perform; I could be myself, and that was enough.

As I reflect on my past years, I realized that trying so hard to fit in everywhere made me feel like I belonged nowhere. By accepting myself, I was accepting the fact that I didn’t need to mold myself into a certain group. I brought diversity into rooms that had never had to think about having it. If I had embraced my differences sooner, maybe I wouldn’t have felt the loneliness and need to conform. Moving forward, I now know that perfection in pleasing others is impossible, but authenticity isn’t.