Do you ever just… pause and look at your life? You look at your bookshelf, your music library, the movies you love, the ideas that rattle around in your head… and you get this weird, quiet jolt. This sudden feeling of, “Who is this person?” Does this collection of thoughts and tastes truly represent me? Or is it an echo? Is this the “real” me, or am I just a “Westernized” version of who I was supposed to be? It’s a heavy question, one that can sit on your chest in the middle of the night. It’s this sense of being “in-between,” of not belonging 100% to the culture of your ancestors, but also not 100% to the global culture you consume. What do we do with that feeling? And is “Westernized” even the right word for it, or is this just… the new face of modern identity?

It’s a strange kind of guilt, isn’t it? It’s not a loud, dramatic “I’ve betrayed my people!” kind of thing. It’s quieter. It’s the subtle pang you feel when you realize you know more about Shakespeare or Star Wars than you do about the epic poetry of your own heritage. It’s the moment you’re listening to a piece of classical music, or some indie band from Portland, and you’re deeply, truly moved… and then a tiny voice in the back of your head whispers, “Is this yours to love? Shouldn’t you be connecting more with your own music?”

And then there’s the external version. Someone, usually from your own background, looks at your choices and says, “Wow, you’re so… Westernized.” It’s rarely a compliment. It’s an accusation, however gentle. It implies a loss. It implies you’ve traded something authentic for something… foreign, something synthetic. It implies you’ve been assimilated, that you’re a cultural casualty.

Let’s just stop and park the car on that word for a second. “Westernized.” It’s so loaded. It implies a passive process, a one-way street. It paints a picture of a giant, monolithic “West” (which doesn’t even really exist, but let’s pretend) stamping its logo on the rest of the world. It’s a word that comes from a history of colonialism, of power imbalances, and it’s a valid and important history. But is it what’s actually happening in my head? Is it what’s happening in yours?

When I fall in love with a novel by a Japanese author, or a film by a Mexican director, or a philosophical concept from a German thinker, am I being “Westernized”? Or… am I just a curious human being living in the 21st century? Am I supposed to check the passport of a good idea before I let it into my brain? “Oh, sorry, Dostoevsky, you’re from the wrong side of the geopolitical divide. No entry.” It sounds absurd when you say it out loud.

This is where I think we need a new word. Or at least, a new framework. The binary of “Traditional” versus “Westernized” feels like a trap. It’s an old, dusty set of boxes that nobody really fits into anymore. What if the word we’re looking for is just… “modern”? Or maybe “composite”? Or “curated”?

“Westernized” implies something was done to me. I was a passive victim of cultural programming. But “modern” or “curated”… that feels active. It implies I’m an agent in my own life. I’m not a blank slate being overwritten. I’m a builder, a collector, a… DJ. I’m standing in front of this vast, overwhelming, global buffet of human creation, and I’m choosing.

I choose this piece of wisdom from my grandmother.

I choose this chord progression from a band I found on the internet.

I choose this recipe that’s been in my family for generations.

I choose this ethical framework from a philosopher who died 2,000 years ago, on a different continent.

My identity isn’t a replacement. It’s not “New Thing In, Old Thing Out.” It’s an expansion. It’s layering. It’s a composite. The “me” of today doesn’t erase the “me” of my heritage. It just adds new rooms to the house. Sometimes those rooms have weird, clashing furniture. It’s a messy, chaotic, beautiful renovation project that never, ever ends.

The anxiety, I think, comes from this illusion of “purity.” We have this romantic, almost political, idea that an “authentic” self is a “pure” self. That to be truly Lebanese, or Nigerian, or Korean, or whatever, you must be a perfect, static snapshot of that culture. You must only consume, create, and reflect the art and ideas from that one specific box.

But… when has that ever been true? Human beings have never been pure. We are, by our very nature, integrators. We’re magpies. We see shiny things—a new spice, a new god, a new way to build an arch, a new melody—and we take it. We blend it. The Silk Road wasn’t just about silk; it was a 4,000-mile-long multicultural blender. The “Golden Age” of any culture almost always happens right after it gets a massive infusion of new, “foreign” ideas.

What’s new isn’t the process. It’s the speed. The internet is the Silk Road on steroids, firing at the speed of light, directly into our pockets. We’re not just trading with the next village over. We are in a constant, real-time cultural conversation with the entire planet. And frankly, telling a curious person not to participate in that is like telling someone with lungs not to breathe the air.

So, am I a “Westernized” version of myself?

Maybe. By some definitions, sure. I speak English. I’ve absorbed ideas and art that originated in Europe and North America. It’s undeniable.

But here’s the more important question: So what?

Is this a problem to be solved, or a reality to be navigated? Is it a betrayal, or is it an evolution?

This is where the “no blame” part is so crucial. It’s easy to fall into the trap of blaming… well, everything. Blame globalization. Blame history. Blame the algorithm for feeding me this music. Blame myself for not being “strong” enough to resist. But blame is a dead end. Blame is just a sophisticated form of complaint. It doesn’t get us anywhere. It just makes us feel helpless and resentful.

What if we replace blame with understanding? And replace guilt with intention?

Instead of “Oh no, I love this ‘Western’ thing, I’m a traitor,” what if we ask, “Why do I love this? What human truth is it speaking to in me?”

When I read a “Western” book about an individual struggling against a system, I’m not connecting with “the West.” I’m connecting with the human theme of autonomy. When I listen to a “traditional” piece of music from my own culture about communal loss, I’m not just connecting with my heritage. I’m connecting with the human theme of belonging.

The “West” doesn’t have a monopoly on individualism. The “East” doesn’t have a monopoly on community. “North” doesn’t own logic, and “South” doesn’t own passion. These are all just different flavors of the human experience, and we have access to all of them. To deny ourselves access to a piece of art or an idea because of its origin is, in a way, to fall for the same trap of “us vs. them” that causes so much conflict in the first place. It’s building a different kind of wall.

The most interesting art, the most profound philosophy, the most delicious food… it almost always comes from the “in-between.” It comes from the hybrid. Jazz is the child of African rhythms and European harmony. Japanese anime is the child of traditional Japanese art and… Walt Disney. The language I’m speaking right now is a glorious mess of Latin, Germanic, and French roots.

Purity is boring. Purity is a myth. Purity is… sterile. The “in-between” space, the one that feels so confusing and unsettling, isn’t a no-man’s-land. It’s the fertile crescent. It’s where everything new and interesting is born.

So, this is the pep talk part, I guess. If you’re feeling this anxiety, this “in-between” guilt… you are not broken. You are not a cultural traitor. You are not “less than.” You are, in fact, at the very forefront of what it means to be a person in this century. The confusion you feel isn’t a sign of failure. It’s a sign that you are engaged. You are thinking. You are grappling with the biggest questions of all: “Who am I, and what do I value?”

Building a self is the hardest work we will ever do. And in 2025, that work means being a conscious curator. It means looking at the endless buffet and not just piling your plate mindlessly, but choosing with intention.

Yes, love that international bestseller. But also, maybe go find that poet from your own country your grandfather used to quote. Put them on the same shelf. Let them talk to each other.

Yes, binge that Netflix show from another continent. But also, call your aunt and ask her to tell you that family story again. The one you’ve only half-listened to.

Yes, explore that philosophical idea from across the ocean. But also, explore the wisdom that’s baked into your own language, your own proverbs, your own traditions.

Your identity isn’t a fortress that must be defended, stone by stone, from foreign invaders. That’s exhausting, and it’s a losing battle.

Your identity is a garden.

You have this rich, wonderful soil—that’s your heritage. Your roots. Your family. You can’t, and shouldn’t, change that. It’s what nourishes you.

But you are the gardener. You get to decide what you plant. Some seeds are heirloom seeds, passed down for generations. Plant them. Tend to them. They are precious. But you can also plant seeds you found on your travels. Seeds that are “exotic,” new, and exciting.

A garden with only one kind of plant is… a farm. A garden that is a vibrant, chaotic, beautiful mix of the native and the exotic, all growing together in the same soil?

That’s a paradise.

So, no. I’m not a “Westernized” version of myself.

I am a modern version of myself.

I am an “in-process” version of myself.

I am a composite. A mosaic. A playlist. A garden.

And so are you.

The goal isn’t to be a perfect, pure artifact of a culture that probably only exists in nostalgic memory anyway. The goal is to be a conscious, thoughtful, empathetic, and alive human being. And that means having the courage to love what you love, to believe what you believe, and to build a self that is honest, even if it’s complicated. Especially if it’s complicated.

What about you? Do you ever feel this “in-between” anxiety? What does your “modern identity” look like? What’s on your shelf, or on your playlist, that feels like it’s from two different worlds… but somehow lives perfectly inside you? I’d genuinely love to know. Let’s talk about it in the comments.