Redefining my identity

Although I expected identity to be precise, I never seemed to find it. Growing up, I didn’t know which friend group I belonged to because I liked a little about all of them. I had a sporty side, a musical side, an artistic side, a nerdy side, a wild side, a conservative side, a confident side, a shy side, a nervous side.

In high school there was a spell where I was the photographer or the German-loving girl. Or maybe the one who knew so much about music. My style was also wide-ranging — hippie to grunge. Sometimes a little weird. I wore bowling shoes for a while and felt so cool. It was odd in the fun way, not in the awkward way.

I lost myself for a while in college. My boyfriend influenced me. I let him. I lost my confidence and my style. I lost who I was and searched for who I wanted to be. I was still music-obsessed — that was allowed. I wasn’t allowed to be too funky, too far away from center. My German identity remained because he thought dating someone bilingual raised his profile by association. Photography drifted in and out.

After college, I was a young teacher. Not just a teacher — a young teacher. I looked young, worried that I acted too young. I struggled to stay true to myself and to show up professionally. My young-teacher identity wasn’t easy to balance. I continued my love of music and photography intermittently. German was sinking deeper into my skin.

I fell in love again. This time I lost myself even more. Not in my labels, but in what I said and when. I played by his rules. Being a teacher was commendable, but he wanted an old-fashioned wife cooking and cleaning. Probably one day taking care of the kids. I quit taking Spanish classes because it didn’t fit into what he wanted me to do. A future linguist halting her passions.

Our breakup coincided with my mom becoming very sick and ultimately passing away. I transitioned from his girlfriend to the caregiver of my mom to the grieving daughter and support for my dad. I was now in a family role I hadn’t felt part of in a long time. I was still a teacher. Still young. Still figuring it all out.

I clung to my German identity. It fit nicely. My photography passion slowly resurfaced, and I was still holding on to family — not reinventing but revisiting parts of myself that had faded.

This time, love was different. Safer. I got married. I moved to Germany, where I was now the American — a dog mom, not a dog sister. A milestone. Still a teacher, but not so young. This was maybe when I first felt like an adult — an unprepared adult. I was an expert. People listened to me, and I learned to embrace it. I dabbled in business — a side gig as a creative. Some people took notice, but I didn’t take the time to make it mine. There was no time because I was too busy being an expert — the only one in the house. I arrived there as a wife. I left there as a woman who was working hard, moving forward, and dragging her husband over the hills and around the curves.

Back in the U.S., my identity felt muddled. I was home, but I was different. I couldn’t find my place with family. Was I German or American? I still loved music but felt out of the loop, like I’d missed something that once kept me connected. I was still a teacher.

Struggle was no longer a phase; it was a constant. I struggled. I was a struggler. I couldn’t break the cycle.

My German identity was huge. But emerging alongside it was my animal-welfare side. It started through photography but grew independently. I was a photographer — a paid photographer. I was a teacher, a German expert, an overachiever. Someone who couldn’t say no. I was trying to make a life work for me in a place where my life didn’t belong. I was a pretender.

Finally, I was a German expert with a place to land. But I was no longer a wife. I was no longer an expert in animal welfare. I was back to teaching at times. I became a friend and then later a girlfriend. I became exciting and excited. I was tired and invigorated at the same time. I felt the earth shaking beneath my feet.

In the moment, I thought I was the same — still me, just living in a new place, trying to make sense of it all. But looking back, I can see how much was shifting underneath the surface. I was starting to find my purpose again. I was exploring a new version of myself. She encouraged me to grow, to stretch the idea of what it meant to be me. I didn’t lose anything, but I changed a lot. Was it days, weeks, or even years? I don’t remember. Change doesn’t announce itself — it unfolds quietly, each time you accept what it means to be you.

I was a partner and a cat mom. I was no longer a German expert, but my education could never leave. I was leading and not leading at the same time. I was a photographer. A traveler. An explorer. A nature lover. An amateur arborist. I was trying to be a friend over and over again. I was no longer a daughter. Barely a sister. I held onto anything I could grab.

I am no longer a fiancée, a partner, a best friend, or a family member. That takes some getting used to. There’s a fear I may never be those again. It’s not a choice. It’s not in my control — an identity given to me. What I once wanted to be more than anything is something I am less likely to be than most anything else.

Photography no longer calls to me, and neither does teaching. “German expert” feels like a stretch, though it was once where I felt most at home. Those roles have dissolved, or maybe evolved. What remains is me — queer, an aspiring author. An aspiring queer author. A loving dog and cat mom who tries hard. I am a runner. A bad runner, but I do it. A hiker. I am consistent.

I’m learning to be a friend, to be a listener, to be more aware. I am lonely sometimes, scared and sad, depressed but healing. And still, I am hopeful. Hopeful that I will keep growing, keep opening. I will love and be loved — fully, deeply. I will be the person I want to be.