I'm Not The Next So and So

Written by Jayona Monique Dorsey
Writer, Creative Strategist, and Cultural Storyteller.
Hampton University, Class of 2027
Strategic Communications major, concentrating in Public Relations with a minor in Marketing.

There is a particular kind of compliment that I’ve never quite known how to receive: “You remind me of…”

At first, it feels good. It means someone sees something in you. A familiar quality, a recognizable spark. Maybe they see a little bit of Carrie Bradshaw in the way you write, a little Tracee Ellis Ross in the way you carry yourself, or some other person whose career seems to exist somewhere along the path you’re trying to build. Eventually, I started asking myself: What if I don’t want to be the next anybody?

I’m not Carrie Bradshaw, no matter how many times I write, “I couldn’t help but wonder…” in my articles. I’m not Mary Jane. I’m not Tracee Ellis Ross. I’m definitely not trying to recreate somebody else’s blueprint simply because parts of our stories look familiar on paper.

I’m tired of the way we compare younger creatives to the people who came before them. We are constantly being introduced through comparison: the next this, the next that, the next journalist, the next actress, the next cultural commentator. What happens when the person you’re becoming doesn’t have a predecessor?

I think I’m me. And I’m feeling like me.

There’s a phrase we’ve heard and repeated for years: “I think I’m Big Meech.” It became its own kind of cultural shorthand for feeling yourself, knowing your presence, and moving like you know exactly who you are. We have our own versions, too: “Who you think you is?” “Who you feeling like?” Usually, they’re jokes. A way of checking someone who might be feeling themselves a little too much.

What if sometimes the answer is simply: me.

Who do you think you are?

Me.

I think I’m me.

And that has to be enough.

Being the first you requires a different kind of confidence. You don’t get the comfort of knowing exactly what the finished product looks like. There’s no blueprint, no older version of yourself to study, no perfect example to imitate. You just have to build.

I’m a strategic communications major, public relations concentration, marketing minor. I’m a journalist. I’m a creative. I’m interested in media, storytelling, public relations, culture, fashion, museums, galleries , and all the spaces where those worlds overlap. I want to tell important stories about Black women in media, particularly the stories that are often overlooked, flattened, or never given enough room to exist.

I’ve watched the women in my family carry impossible things. I’ve seen what it looks like to become the person everybody depends on. To hold a family together, to become a matriarch before you ever imagined yourself in that position. Someone could look at that story and try to place me into an existing archetype.

Even there, I know I’m different.

I can inherit the strength without inheriting every decision. I can honor where I come from while still deciding where I’m going. I can carry the story without repeating it.

That, to me, is the beauty of Black people. We are not a monolith. We can come from similar histories and still become completely different people. We can share a culture and have completely different dreams. We can be journalists, athletes, artists, strategists, filmmakers, designers, entrepreneurs, academics, entertainers, and everything in between.

We can be inspired by the people before us without becoming replicas of them.

I’m not Carrie Bradshaw. I’m not Mary Jane and True Jackson. I’m the creativity of women who refused to fit neatly into one box and the audacity of every woman who decided to make something before she knew exactly what it would become. I am all of the women I’ve watched, all of the stories I’ve heard, all of the places I’ve been, and all of the things I’m still figuring out.

I am not the next so and so.

And neither are you.

Being inspired by someone who came before you is powerful. Sometimes, they are the reason you believe something is possible in the first place. Inspiration can be the beginning. Eventually, it has to become innovation.

Stop asking, “Who am I like?” Start asking, “What has never been done like this before?”

Maybe your job isn’t to become the next version of somebody else. Maybe your job is to become the first version of you.

So who do I think I am?

I think I’m me.

And honestly?

I’m feeling like me.