Identity

Who are you, anyway?

No, really. Who are you?

This is one of the hardest questions for people to answer. Often, the response is a list of titles, roles, accomplishments, or activities. Rarely do you hear who someone truly is. And I don't think that's an accident.

We've been conditioned to see ourselves through what we can accomplish, as if our value is measured solely by what we produce. We're constantly asked to document our activities, recognitions, and impact.

We're trained to spot talent and winners we can attach ourselves to. But when were we taught to look inward and articulate the essence of who we are? How often are we encouraged to do so, even at the risk of uncovering uncomfortable truths?

The result is that most of us are performing an identity rather than living one.

I see it everywhere. The obsession with status, likes, and perception. The incessant name-dropping. The lack of depth when asked for an original thought. It shows up in subtle ways too: withholding kindness unless someone meets a certain standard of worthiness, loving the façade of a thing more than the thing itself, holding others to standards they couldn't receive if those standards were actually met. I wish I could say this is just a social media phenomenon, but I see it often in real life, face to face.

When someone's identity is built almost entirely on external forces, you can feel it. It drains the room.

As I interact with people, I often find myself wondering: is the person before me right now truly you? Not in a judgmental way. In a genuinely curious one. Because we all have tells. The inconsistencies between declared principles and lived behavior. The subjects we avoid. The fleeting moment when something slips out and your eyes betray what you thought you could hide forever. Those things make me pause.

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The truth is, we've distorted identity. We monetize it. Debate it. Change it when it no longer suits us. Compartmentalize it. We've been taught to code-switch so fluently that we can hold it all together even when we're far from our innate selves. But the very public crash-outs we witness suggest otherwise.

And what if, in doing all of this, we lose the depth that comes only from owning our identity rather than making it palatable for whatever room we're in? I believe this has quietly eroded relationships, between men and women, between people with differing opinions. You're either "this" or you're "not it," and therefore not worth space — all because what you do or bring to the table doesn't fit someone else's sense of entitlement.

That makes me sad. I'm genuinely curious about who people are before I care about the role they might play in my life. But for most, that kind of vulnerability feels risky. I accept that, even when I don't love it.

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When I say identity, I mean the innate characteristics that define who you are most of the time. Not a laundry list of attributes, because it's hard to keep a long list true across every situation. Identity is influenced by many things: family legacy, what you're taught to value, what people say you are or what you want them to say, lived experiences, traumas witnessed or endured, and convictions, if you have any.

Personally, I don't believe identities change. They're consistent. But over time, more of our identity is revealed, to ourselves and to others. Sometimes beautifully. Sometimes tragically.

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For much of my life, my identity was shaped by geography and affiliations. I'm a Jamaican from The Bronx. A Buckeye. A Black woman. These attributes served me well and, at times, protected me. But I couldn't anticipate the day they'd feel as useless as a Blockbuster card in a streaming world.

You know what I mean. The day the world you built falls apart. The day someone you love succumbs to illness. The day you walk away from what you deeply desire because it's also the most toxic part of your life. The day you're called to operate in an environment diametrically opposed to who you say you are.

Who are you then?

That question is not rhetorical. It is the whole thing.

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Life forced me to wrestle with it. I did too many "random" things professionally to be defined by vocation. Frequent moves and relational shifts made me feel more complex than I am. Even the stigma attached to Christianity, though sometimes deserved, felt far from the faith I actually practiced. None of it captured the parts of me that teach myself instruments, learn new languages, tell stories on a whim, and laugh at almost anything.

So I went to the One who knows best. I asked God directly: Who am I? Who did You create me to be? Why don't I recognize myself the more I live my life?

That last question? I think He had a field day with it. The transformation took years to unfold.

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The gift: I have the answer.

The cost: everything. No, really — everything.

Now, when people ask who I am beyond my name, I tell them: I am a source of love and freedom. I know most want to hear what I've done, what I do, and who I do it with. But I'm resolved: if I can't be a source of love and freedom, you won't find me there. Whether I'm a daughter, sister, friend, lover, engineer, alumna, or boss, that's what you can expect. Those who know me well worry when they see me operating outside of it. And I'm grateful for that.

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I share all of that not to give you an answer, but to give you permission to go looking for one.

What about you? Not what you do, not what you've built, not who claims you. Who are you beneath all of that? How would you answer the question? And when you say it, do you mean it?