What Makes You, You?

January 4th, 2025

It was a cold winter morning, and I was on my way to a ceramic painting store. The journey was fifty minutes by tram from my home. The plan wasn’t originally mine; Maya had invited me. She’d been wanting to try ceramic painting for a while and had suggested we go together. I immediately said yes. It sounded like the perfect way to spend a winter day.

Maya, by the way, isn’t her real name. It’s a pseudonym I’m using to respect her privacy. Like me, she’s from Southeast Asia, and our friendship often finds its grounding in the shared experiences of being so far from home.

Earlier that week, Maya had left some of her stuff at my place during our New Year’s Eve gathering. I’d promised to bring it to her when we met. And I did. Her things were carefully packed into my bag before I headed out. But somewhere in the process, I forgot my own wallet.

By the time I realized it, I was already crossed the road, and my tram was coming closer. So there was no turning back. I’d have to rely on Maya to cover any unexpected costs.

When I arrived at the store, the doors were still closed. A family with four kids stood nearby, their faces pressed against the window as they pointed excitedly at ceramic mugs and figurines. Gradually, more people arrived until about twenty of us were waiting in the cold, shifting on our feet and stealing glances at the locked door. Just as I was beginning to wonder if I should have worn thicker socks, Maya arrived.

She greeted me with her usual calm smile, and we went inside together.

The store was warm and slightly crowded, with people already settled into their chairs, ceramic pieces in front of them, palettes of pastel paints scattered across the tables. Maya chose to paint Totoro, while I chose floral designs.

We settled into our spots, leaned over our ceramics, and began painting. The room was filled with soft chatter and the occasional clink of paintbrushes against ceramic. Every now and then, Maya and I would glance up and share small updates about our progress. It felt peaceful. It was a moment intentionally carved out of an otherwise busy week.

After finishing our ceramic painting session and sharing a hearty Korean lunch, we decided to stop by Uniqlo. My hands were still cold from the morning, so I bought a pair of gloves. They weren’t the warmest, but at least my fingers wouldn’t feel like frozen fish sticks for the rest of the day.

We had planned to meet another friend who works there, but her shift ended late, so Maya and I decided to keep wandering.

That’s when we stumbled upon the Christmas market on Ku’damm. I was surprised to see it still open. It was already January 4th. Compared to last year, when it had been so crowded we gave up and went to McDonald’s instead, this time it felt quiet and relaxed.

We spotted a churro stand and didn’t even need to discuss it. Normally, I’d go for the classic sugar-and-cinnamon churros, but since Maya was treating us (thank you, forgotten wallet!) Nutella churros it was.

The churros were freshly made, crispy on the outside, and soft on the inside, with Nutella drizzled over the top. We found a tent nearby with heaters (that apparently were off) as we carefully balanced our churro sticks and avoided Nutella spills on our coats (which I failed, carelessly)

Maya also ordered Glühwein, and as she held the steaming cup in her hands, our conversation shifted.

It wasn’t small talk anymore. It was one of those conversations where you stop mid-bite, lean in slightly, and really listen.

“I think the winter is just too hard for me,” Maya said softly, her eyes focused on the swirling steam rising from her drink. “I want to be in a place where I can comfortably do many things.”

Her words felt heavy but calm. She spoke about how Berlin often feels lonely, how friendships here rarely move beyond polite conversations, and how hard it is to build something meaningful in a place where everyone seems transient.

We started talking about belonging and community. Neither of us felt drawn to our home country communities here. It wasn’t because we didn’t care about where we came from, but because those spaces often carried the weight of societal expectations. The invisible checklist of what a woman’s life should look like.

In Southeast Asia, those expectations often sound familiar. Married by 25. Kids by 30. A family home. Not rented, but owned.

We laughed a little as we counted our own boxes. Maya hadn’t ticked any. I had ticked one. And instead of a child, I have Cappuccino, my cat. A demanding, spoiled little furry ball, who acts like he owns the apartment.

But underneath the laughter, we both felt the same thing. A quiet awareness of how those expectations still linger, even when we know they shouldn’t define us.

When I was laid off, I felt like I had lost more than just my job. I felt like I had lost a piece of myself. My sense of identity was so closely tied to being a recruiter that, without it, I didn’t know how to answer the question, “Who am I now?”

In Berlin, though, something shifted. When people meet you here, they don’t ask, “What’s your job?” Instead, they ask, “What do you do?”

It’s such a small difference, but it feels significant.

I started to realize that identity isn’t one thing. It’s many things. It’s not something static. It’s a collection of moments, choices, and small details that make up who you are.

When I sat in the ceramic store that morning, carefully brushing paint over my mug, it struck me how similar it felt to building an identity. It’s not a single bold stroke. It’s layers of color, one carefully applied after the other. Some layers are vibrant and deliberate, others faint and almost accidental. Mistakes get smudged, and sometimes you wipe them clean and start over. In the end, you step back and realize it’s the collection of every small choice that makes the whole piece meaningful.

If someone had asked me that day, “Who are you, Annisa?” I would have said: Indonesian. A wife. A cat mom to Cappuccino. A baker and cook. A true crime podcast enthusiast. And a reflective storyteller.

Identity isn’t something handed to you. It’s something you build, carry, and reshape over time.

It’s in the quiet moments. Painting ceramics. Sharing churros with a friend. Having conversations that stay with you long after they’re over.

So let me ask you.

What makes you, you?