"Who am I?’" I asked my fiancé as he stared at his computer, lost in a scientific journal. A was hesitant to respond, and for good reason. This question seemed like prime entrapment, but I was serious.
Who am I? Being asked to create my authorial identity has led me to my latest and greatest identity crisis. When I was 16, I solved the question by diving into the theater and I became an actress. I gave that identity all I had, and it stuck around until I couldn’t parse out who I was outside of any given character. I was the dumb blonde far too many times, a sultry witch, a scary witch, a queen, a moody Russian girl…and in the end, I had completely lost myself in these characters.
When I was 24 the question came back with a vengeance. I decided that I was going to fit and successful. I got myself a corporate job and trained for a 10k, then a half marathon. I became a runner—an obsessive, mile counting, all or nothing runner. After a few years I worked my way up to a marathon and at that finish line I shed the runner identity. Running was hard, my legs hurt, I was tired and sad and over it.
Over the next few years, I tried on some new identities. Work-obsessed corporate slave; single party girl; annoying roommate; exercise addict; desperate girl who wants a boyfriend; girl who cries in an empty bathtub; therapy goer.
Now, after being all those things, I realize that my identities are routed in so much more—no single identity can sum up who I am. I am not just a European-born woman living in Maine, nor am I just a writer. I am a student, a runner, a corporate sustainability professional, a daughter of an opera singer and the lucky man who married her, a sister, a dog mom, a partner. While I don't feel like I excel at any of these identities, when combined, they being to paint the picture of who I am, who I want to be.