A few weeks ago, while occupied with the ordinary routines of daily life, a random thought came to me: What would my ideal self look like? What would I consider a successful life?

As I genuinely reflected on the question, I noticed a pattern emerging. The first images that came to mind were surprisingly concrete and material: a particular physical appearance, a certain car, a beautiful apartment, financial security, perhaps a lifestyle that would signal that I had ‘made it’.

I found myself amused and slightly unsettled by the realisation that the first things I associated with my ideal self were material possessions and outward appearances. It made me wonder: Where did I learn to define success this way? Why do these things feel like evidence of becoming the person I am supposed to be?

The more I thought about it, the more I recognised that perhaps these desires did not originate entirely from within me. They may have been shaped, gradually and almost imperceptibly, by the world around me.

A particular scene from Little Miss Sunshine, a movie I find beautiful, came to mind. Little Olive is travelling across the country with her family to attend a children's beauty pageant. She is excited about the trip and has been looking forward to the competition for a long time, even practising the dance routine she plans to perform with her grandfather.

At one point, the family stops at a diner for breakfast. Olive excitedly orders a ‘waffle à la mode’, a waffle topped with vanilla ice cream. Her father, Richard, immediately intervenes. Rather than openly insulting her, he uses an insidious, passive-aggressive logic. He tells Olive that the women who compete in the Miss America pageant are always skinny, and that eating ice cream makes people fat.

I remember feeling infuriated watching that scene. There is something particularly disturbing about hearing an adult speak to a little girl that way, not simply because of what he says, but because of what he introduces into her world.

Before that moment, Olive is completely innocent of the idea that her body needs to be evaluated. She is excited about her waffle, her dance, and her pageant. Her body is simply her body; it is not yet a problem she needs to solve.

And then, almost instantaneously, that changes.

Olive becomes visibly self-conscious, absorbing the implication behind her father's words: perhaps there is something wrong with the way she is. Perhaps she needs to become different in order to be accepted.

That moment stayed with me because I think it captures something much larger about how we learn to see ourselves.

The message rarely arrives as an explicit instruction saying, “You must look this way to be worthy.” Instead, it comes in fragments, in advertisements, movies, social media, conversations, family expectations, compliments, jokes, fashion, and the lifestyles presented to us as desirable.

Over time, these messages become so familiar that they no longer feel external. They begin to sound like our own thoughts.

We learn that certain bodies are more desirable, certain careers more respectable, certain homes more successful, and certain cars more prestigious. We learn that having more money means achieving more, that attractiveness determines worth, and that productivity is a measure of value. Most importantly, these standards are rarely presented as standards. They are presented as normal.

This is what made my original question about my ‘ideal self’ feel so revealing.

When I first imagined the person I wanted to become, I instinctively imagined the visible markers of success: how I would look, what I would drive, where I would live, and how much money I would have. None of these desires are inherently wrong.

But I began to wonder whether these things were actually my definition of a meaningful life, or whether I had simply learned to associate them with one.

Perhaps the more important question is not “what would my ideal self have?” but “who would my ideal self be?”

Would I be kinder? More courageous? More emotionally grounded? Would I have meaningful relationships? Would I be someone who makes others feel safe and accepted? Would I have the freedom to spend my time in ways that feel meaningful? Would I be curious, compassionate, resilient, generous, or intellectually fulfilled?

And perhaps most importantly, would I be able to exist without constantly feeling that I needed to become someone else before I was allowed to feel enough?

As adults, the messages become more sophisticated, but the underlying lesson remains remarkably similar: there is a version of you that is more acceptable than the person you are right now.

And so, we spend much of our lives moving toward an imagined version of ourselves, sometimes without stopping to ask who created that image in the first place. Perhaps introspection allows us to separate these two voices: the voice of what we genuinely want, and the voice of what we have been taught to want.

The answer is not to reject material things or ambition altogether. The problem is not wanting a beautiful apartment, financial stability, or a particular appearance. The problem begins when these things become conditions for self-worth, when they stop being things we enjoy having and become evidence that we are finally enough.

The ideal self does not need to be the person who has everything society has taught us to want. Rather, it can be the person who is more conscious of why they want what they want.

Someone who can recognise the standards we have inherited without automatically accepting them. Someone who can enjoy beauty without believing that beauty determines worth. Someone who can pursue success without allowing success to determine their value. Someone who can want more for themselves without believing that who they are now is somehow inadequate.

Perhaps this is a more meaningful definition of the ideal self: not a perfected version of ourselves, but a more authentic one.

And, in the end, an ideal life is not about finally becoming the person who fits the picture perfectly. It is about becoming comfortable enough with ourselves to ask whether we even want to be in the picture.