Who Am I Without the Labels

Self & Identity Series

Who am I if I’m not somebody’s mom? If I’m not his wife? If I’m not the older sister who’s supposed to keep it together, or the daughter who’s supposed to make them proud, or the personal assistant who knows how to show up on time and hold it all down? If I’m not “the African American woman” in the room, carrying that weight with me before I even open my mouth?

It’s a scary question because I’ve worn these labels for so long, I don’t know where they stop and I begin. Sometimes I think if I take them off, even for a minute, I’ll just vanish. Like without those titles I don’t know who the hell I am or why I matter.

But then there’s this little voice—quiet, but there. It reminds me that before I was any of that, I was just me. A girl who loved words. A girl who felt things deeply, sometimes too deeply. A girl who didn’t always have the right answers but could always sit with the questions.

Maybe the truth is, I’ve been hiding behind the labels. They’re comfortable in a way, even when they’re heavy. If people can call me “mom” or “assistant” or “wife,” it gives them a neat way to place me. And maybe it gives me a neat way to avoid saying, “This is me. Just me.”

So who am I without the labels? I don’t have the full answer. Not yet. But I know I’m still here. And maybe that’s the starting point: me, standing in my own skin, trying to remember that my existence doesn’t need a title to be valid.