Turning a year older in January is strange. It is the month when the year begins, and naturally, people are filled with expectations: “I want to find a new job,” “I want to lose weight,” “I want this to be a great year.” I, of course, am no different; I’d like things to go well for me, for a change. But that is not the only thing on my mind. Being the anniversary of my birth, ideas about my life come to me—about the things I have done right and wrong, and above all, what my final destination will be.

However, my reflection also turns toward the person I am now. I am about to turn 24, an age that already resonates with a sense of "seriousness." That is unsettling. As a child, I believed that by this age, people already had a significant part of their lives organized. That is to say, they knew who they were and what they would be for the rest of their lives, or at least they had an idea. I have realized that was a mistake. I feel I am still discovering it.

To understand ourselves, there must be moments of introspection, and for those moments to lead somewhere, it is helpful to make comparisons—not with other people, but with the only version I consider valid: our past selves.

I remember the 14-year-old boy who believed that by 24, he would have his life figured out. His vision of life was simplistic. Although I sometimes think that in certain aspects I was somewhat "mature," this point reveals how childish and limited my way of understanding the world and the possibilities it offered truly was. You see, I believed in a predetermined plan for a happy life: study, work, get married, have children, and eventually die. Now I understand that there are as many ways to live as there are people in the world. I am glad it is so. Even for those who choose that path, I believe they see so many nuances and colors that they craft an existence more complex than I could have ever imagined.

It was 2016; I was in middle school, surrounded by people who, for the most part, I felt could not hear me. And being someone shy and introverted—a “winning combination”—I did not have a very good time. For that very reason, I remember feeling especially alone back then. It wasn't even for that long, but it is what I feel most vividly in my memory: the sensation that no one around me could truly connect with me. Now, I am sure it was something inherent to that stage of life.

The art of sound, on the other hand, began to be a constant in my life. I believe those were the years when I dedicated the most time to listening and discovering new sounds. Not only that, I drew closer to and became passionate about playing an instrument: the guitar. That lonely boy threw himself entirely into practicing and learning until he became competent; in a way, that united him with other people like him. Friends who accompanied me in rehearsals and improvised street concerts. I have lost one of them. I have stopped playing…

But music has a strange way of filtering through the cracks. Precisely, it has been music that has returned me to how I was back then. Among the many songs I used to listen to, there is one that not only reminds me of those times but that, to this day, I can say I consider one of my favorites. Beyond being a love song by a boy band, I believe it touches on a theme that is foreign to no one and that is very relevant now as I think about my existence: the passage of time. I replay the lyrics of the chorus in my mind…

 

We're only getting older, baby

And I've been thinking about it lately 

Does it ever drive you crazy Just how fast the night changes? 

Everything that you've ever dreamed of 

Disappearing when you wake up 

But there's nothing to be afraid of 

Even when the night changes It will never change me and you. 

(Night Changes - One Direction)

 

When I listened to that “Does it ever drive you crazy just how fast the night changes?” as a child, I thought about what the natural cadence of life brought with it, and it scared me. Ten years later, it still terrifies me. Beyond the inevitable—death—I am worried about the idea of change, not because of the phenomenon itself, but because of what it implies. Let me explain. I would translate it into the question: Is there an essence within us that does not change? Sometimes I believe there is. I think about it as I write this essay. On one hand, this permanence could be seen as a sign of stagnation; on the other, I consider it the living proof of our uniqueness and the fact that we are unrepeatable. However, not all change is a misfortune; it makes us grow, guiding us to become the person we are meant to be.

I do not have a conclusive answer, but it is a question I wish to keep playing with. It is precisely in that exploration where I stop to observe my own history. Reviewing my brief time on this earth, I could conclude that my life has been boring: in the end, I have been no one else but myself. However, I realize that is a superficial view. So many things have happened within me that I wonder: is it like this for so many others? The events that have marked me have been subtle, but they have been engraved in my thoughts, slowly shaping the person writing these words. If I were a better writer, I might be able to better capture that transformation. But I am left with the certainty that, even in the “inert” daily lives of thousands of others like me, life is and will continue to be a mystery.

To the world, the same; to my conscience, a whole multiplicity. The same occurs in music. The nature of sound reveals a physical reality that contradicts our immediate perception: what our ears identify as a singular and immutable musical note is, in reality, a complex event of spectral variety. When a guitar string vibrates, it produces not just one note, but a series of frequencies that add richness and color to its sound; in other words, they allow us to understand it as such. This is known as the harmonic series.

And so it is with people and their identity. From the outside, we might see a stranger, or even our own family and friends, as a fundamental note—a solid and constant sound that has always been there. But each one has their own timbre, be it deep, bright, or dull. Our richness—our truth—resides in all those harmonics that time has added to our resonance; that is, every experience and bond that adds new frequencies to the vibration, enriching it.

Harmonics are, theoretically, infinite. Human life is not. However, the string that we are will continue to emit sound as long as it keeps vibrating. Past experiences still resonate, fading, but without disappearing entirely. With one more year of life, I do not know if an immutable essence exists. I know, at least, that something insists.

 

Alejandro Hernández, 2026