Just Me

Earlier this year, in a piece titled “Deconstructing Me: Healing From Religious Trauma,” I touched on the topic of identity and deconstruction. But more specifically, I asked: Who am I when parts of my identity no longer belong to me? Who am I when I stray from my religion? Who am I when I am no longer in contact with a friend who held my hand through every major life event? Who am I when I no longer have the job that had such a profound impact on my life?

We often look at these losses as, well, losses. And that may very well be the case. These changes often require us to move through a (sometimes overwhelming) feeling of grief. We are put in a position that forces us to process who we are now that we no longer own those aspects of ourselves. We view the loss as not just a loss of something tangible—like a relationship or job title—but also as a loss of our identity.

It compels us to ask the question: “Who am I?” when aspects of my identity no longer make sense or when they have been stripped away, supposedly leaving a chunk missing. Who am I without these things?

I think I have the answer for you.

I would like to introduce an alternative perspective.

When I thought of all the interlocking pieces of my identity, the things that make me who I am, a few things came to mind:

I am a writer.
I am a graduate student.
I am a content creator, a son, a brother, a friend, a music lover, a winter hater, a swiftie, a hopeless romantic, an Aquarius, an overachiever, and a perfectionist.

When you remove every aspect of my identity, these relationships, titles, interests, and achievements—all the things that seemingly make me who I am—I am left with one thing. Me.

Who I am is already whole, with or without all the extra stuff. And while these things may seem like an all-encompassing view of the person that I am, they don’t even begin to scratch the surface.

My favorite season doesn’t display my values. My interests don’t help you understand my love. My job title doesn’t showcase my compassion. My zodiac sign tells you nothing more than when I was born.

The things that for so long I viewed as the most important parts of my identity, I now know are just like clothes: something to cover us up—a visual for the world on how to perceive us. But when you strip away all the surface-level or superficial stuff, there is still an entire human beneath it all.

I had to lose and grieve the things I thought made me who I am to learn that the real me—the kind, intelligent, empathetic, energetic me—was waiting underneath, eager for the opportunity to show me, and the world, who I am. And who I am is me. No labels, no titles, no fancy achievements or interesting hobbies, just me. 

And being “just me” is enough.

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