Discovering Our Identities
Have you ever stopped to think about the word identity? It can mean different things in different contexts. I honestly think that's why it's so hard to define. The government would say your identity is your name, date of birth, and social security number. Some might say it's what you do for a living. Or your gender. Or your race and ethnicity. Or your sexual orientation. Or your astrological sign/enneagram/MBTI. Or your marital/parental status, or lack thereof. Or your age. Or where you live. I could go on and on.
That’s why discovering our identities felt like a great topic to address inside Illuminate, our writing community. We asked our Illuminate members to write about identity this month, and below you’ll find a roundup of their take on this subject. We hope you’ll visit each post and maybe even meet your new favorite writer.
Becoming Myself by Jacey Rogel
My entire life has been one long, exhausting search to figure out who I am. A twisty road with so many detours and dead ends, leaving me lost and broken, desperate for a map.
I was certain that reaching specific milestones would be the outline I needed to find myself, to feel secure in my body and mind. To feel like I fit and belonged. But with every milestone reached, every job secured, every relationship, I felt more lost.
A Reintroduction by Kristin Rouse
It feels a little dangerous, writing about my experience with a marginalized friend by saying that part of his identity made our relationship fraught. There are plenty of spaces in the world that are completely unfriendly to anyone on the margins of white, cis-het society — the last thing I want is my heart to be thought of as one of them.
In the weeks since George Floyd’s murder, I’ve taken a good hard look at my allyship as a person with white, cis-het (passing) privilege, and realized I am far from perfect.
personas. by Eunice Brownlee
It’s interesting to me all the different ways we work to understand our identities. I am addicted to understanding what it is that makes me who I am and if I had any influence over it or if I’m simply influenced by when I was born and how I was raised. Of all the methods that have been devised to put a language behind the things that make us uniquely us, I’ve yet to find one that didn’t feel like I was reading a portrait of myself in words.
A Rose by Any Other Name Would Not Be Me by Mia Sutton
I think our names are a big deal. They're the first building block in our identities. It's generally the first word we learn after Mama and Dada. Our names are a gift from our parents, one that they painstakingly chose to introduce us to the world. I mean, have you seen all those baby name books? My eyes get crossed before I've finished the "A" names list.
Shifting Identities by Sarah Hartley
I feel as if I’m coming to a crossroads moment in my life. Whether it’s age (maybe an early mid-life crisis without the fancy sports car) or simply a shift in my identity, I’m not sure.
But I can feel something moving inside. I am desiring, craving, yearning for simpler, slower, quieter. I want to slow the hamster wheel I’ve put myself on. Take it down to a nice leisurely stroll so I can see the beauty in the journey. I feel as if I’ve missed so much of the scenery along the way over the last five years and I’m ready to open my eyes again.
Discovering Identity by Mala Kennedy
I didn’t discover my identity until I was 30. I lost myself in who I thought I should be.
Rooted in other people’s expectations. Planted in their shoulds.
I was always told my reputation mattered. The model of that reputation was a good girl. If I unpack it more, it was a good white girl.
The problem with this was, I wasn’t white.
The Identity You’re Given by Liz Russell
When I was prompted to write about my identity, I had to wonder: How many times had I been identified as something that seemed so marvelously incongruent with the way that I identified myself? Could I even draw the line between the identities I was given and the ones I’d created for myself?
What’s My Name Again? by Danni EverAfter
Hello, my name is Depression. My name is 30 minutes of hysterical tears on the kitchen floor before work. It’s “Sorry I’m late, I didn’t want to come.” It’s barely being able to stand upright because of exhaustion.
Dinosaurs and Unicorns by Jenn Norrell
A couple month’s ago Idgie and I were cleaning out her room, deciding if there were things she could part with. We opened the bins under her bed and were sorting through her collection of items – tiny unicorns, race cars, random scraps of craft supplies, home-made necklaces – all the things. From the back of the cabinet I pulled out a blue and green dinosaur tail. The elastic waistband was twisted and the velcro was filled with various fuzz. The tail itself was covered in pills, a tiny hole making its way visible on the end. I found tears in my eyes remembering how she wore this tail every day, from morning to night, for almost an entire year. Her love for dinosaurs worn like a badge, it became part of who she was.
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