I’ve been forced to answer, in various forms, the question “Who are you?” a lot recently, and with the effort of answering has come some soul-searching.  I’ve filled out applications for a license to practice dentistry in Georgia; I’ve read variations of wedding ceremonies and considered which one most closely reflects me and the BF; I’ve engaged in Church Search 2010, sitting in chairs and pews all over the greater Atlanta area, listening to music and preaching and waiting for my soul to feel at home.  Much of the changes in my life over the past few months have resonated with my sense of identity and left waves skimming across the surface of my mind in the form of questions: Who are you?  What do you like?  What do you want to be? What do you want to change?

I just wrote a brief bio for the website of my new job, and I thought to myself that if someone had asked me five years ago to complete this task, I would have struggled and sweated and thought about copying someone else’s and eventually, I would have made a list of the things I’ve done in life.  Then I would have subtracted the bullets, added articles and pronouns and commas and periods, and pressed send.  I am no stranger to describing myself on applications and resumes, but I always had the most trouble with the Interests section, with the part that’s supposed to convert me from a list of achievements into a real person.  Most of the fleshing out process occurred in New York, after a demolition in Birmingham, and at times it was bloody.  But it happened.  And here I am now.  I think we will always, at points throughout our lives, be asked by someone just who we are.

The answer, for me, is no longer Whomever you want me to be (see: demolition and fleshing out processes).  I’ll always struggle with making my identity a mirror image of the person who asks for it, will always work away from making People-Pleaser my default setting.  But as I’m growing older and hopefully wiser (ha!  I just accidentally typed wider), I am realizing that proving myself is less a part of my gameplan than being myself.  I prefer to take curves slowly in my car so that I can get home safely to the BF rather than go bungee-jumping to impress an audience.  I appreciate wine more because I (most days) have one glass over dinner and DVDs rather than a couple of bottles over the course of a night of bad choices.  I say no more often (sometimes, violently).  I laugh only at the jokes I think are funny, usually (awkward silences are still painful).  I roll the phrase Esse quam videri (to be, rather than to appear) around in my head and let it make a home there.

At work the other day I introduced myself to the mother of a new patient and sat to talk with her and get some information.  When I suggested that she should be helping brush her four-year-old’s teeth, she gave a tinkly fake laugh (I recognized it from my old repertoire) and said, “I don’t think you understand.  She doesn’t need my help.  She is independent.” While she spoke, her daughter grabbed items off the desk and did a handstand in my face.  I plastered on a fake smile to match the mother’s fake laugh (it’s okay to be fake if it’s for a job and you can recognize irony and your own self-growth–check the rules) and thought to myself, “She’s an independent brat and if you don’t start being a parent she’s going to turn into an independent asshole.”  But I just mentioned our blue plaque-revealing dye and made a vague reference to seeing what we would see (it’s okay to use cliches if you know you’re being ironic).  I walked away, amazed once again at the inner struggle I feel to go with the flow, agree with people, even when I don’t particularly like them.  I considered the difference between politeness and truth-telling and realized that they are not, as I once thought, mutually exclusive.  And that much of life and growing up and becoming myself has been learning how to do both, at the same time: honesty and grace, equal portions.  Not sparing people from the truth just to prevent a conflict.  Not dumping it on them with judgment just to make a point.  Just the honesty and grace from my side, then the faith that no matter what their personal relationship to truth is, I’ve done my part and can let go.  And not stay up that night wondering if they like me.

The familiar anxiety that rests as a pit in my stomach is my personal alarm system warning me that I’m getting away from living out of my personal relationship with truth and depending on something else to prop up my identity.  The funny thing is that the more effort I expend, instead of resting in that truth and relaxing into who I am because of it, the further I get from the best version of myself.  And the further I get into a performance that doesn’t deserve good reviews.  My favorite character in Sex and the City was Manhattan, and I didn’t make the effort to see the newest installment once I heard that the plot revolves around the girls traveling to Abu Dhabi.  New York was the heart of that story, and they traded in identity for a dollar.  Look how well that worked out.

The opposite of the aforementioned anxiety was what I felt last Sunday as the BF and I walked into a midtown church, passing a homeless man in the pew, and heard our favorite hymn being played.  The sincerity of the voices, the lack of performance, pierced me and I felt my eyes water.  This feels like Redeemer, I thought.  This feels like home.