I don’t know who I am.
This is a question many of us ask ourselves, but as I write these words, I can say in all honesty, I have no clue aside from the labels we are given throughout our lives: daughter, granddaughter, sister, niece, wife, widow, mom, friend, employee.
Even now, after staring into space for an indeterminate amount of time, my mind is blank.
I don’t think I have ever been so frustrated or lost.
The temptation to end this newsletter here is strong. Perhaps with an ending that explores trying to figure out who I am, using concrete examples.
But I don’t have that.
What I do have is therapy and an email I sent to my therapist with feedback from the people who know me best.
I have been synthesizing the messages from my friends. It’s as if they’re all circling the same core wound: you know yourself deeply, but you don’t always trust that self enough to let it lead.
This is similar to mirror therapy, which uses a mirror to help alter our self-perception.
I have used a mirror many times. I stood in front of it and told the woman looking back at me I love you, I am proud of you — all the things.
They say the eyes are the mirror to the soul, but I never look myself in the eyes when in front of the mirror. When I apply cosmetics, I use the smallest handheld mirror possible, which is compact in size.
I wish I knew myself that deeply.
I also know that I am not alone. I have read so many stories and heard from so many women about the labels we wear. Labels we did not ask for. Labels that are thrown around indiscriminately that harm (fat, ugly, stupid, dumb, bitch, whore). Labels that infantilize us (sweetie, baby, doll). Sexualize us (thot, doll, trollop, tease, cougar). Demean our competence (bossy, aggressive, bitchy). Reinforce restrictive traditional roles (housewife, office mom, PTA mom). Undermine our intelligence (emotional, just a pretty face, girls are bad at math).
The terms we are labeled with are often traits that are praised in men. You would never call me a shade tree mechanic because historically that has been for men who work on the family car, but I, too, can change your oil and gap spark plugs. Upon hearing that my grandfather taught me these things, people have been known to say “she’s a tomboy,” except I am most comfortable in long, flowy dresses and hate jeans. I was also a stay-at-home mom, not because of a traditional role, but because it would have cost more money for me to return to work after giving birth for childcare than I was making yearly.
As I sit with my journal to my right, scribbling all the terms I have heard myself called, I have a section waiting for me to list all the things I am. Not labels given to me because I exist.
It’s not blank because I don’t know who I am. It’s blank because I am finally ready to let myself define it.
I'm sending you so much love and giving you a giant, warm hug. This had to be difficult to write. But I am absolutely sure that you will be able to define yourself during this process!
Thank you for sharing this! Our narrative is often given to us by others and we carry that narrative until we are ready to take the pen and write it ourselves. Congratulations on taking the pen 🖊️ 🌸