The Walls We Call Identity

There are things I say about myself without thinking.

"I'm not creative." "I'm always the responsible one." "I don't do things like that."

These statements feel like truth. Solid. Reliable. Mine.

But lately, I've begun to wonder. Are they truth? Or just walls I built to feel safe?

We carry identities like armor. Labels passed down, or shaped by survival. They help us navigate the world: until they start to limit who we're allowed to become.

The Inheritance of Definition

Some parts of who we are were never chosen. They were assigned.

"You're the quiet one." "You're the achiever." "You're just like your father." "You're nothing like your sister."

And we believed them. We built our lives inside those frames. We found comfort in predictability.

But comfort doesn't always mean truth.

Sometimes identity becomes a costume. Worn so long, we forget we're the ones underneath.

When Certainty Becomes a Cage

There's something seductive about knowing who you are. It gives you structure. Belonging. Something to hold onto.

But what happens when the person you've become no longer feels like home?

When the roles you play begin to feel tight, scripted, false?

You may notice a tension. A restlessness. A whisper that says: "There's more to you than this."

Not because you were wrong. But because you're evolving.

As James Baldwin once wrote, "Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced."

The walls we call identity often need facing before they can fall.

Cracks in the Wall

Lately, I've caught glimpses of a version of me who doesn't follow the script.

Who laughs louder. Who risks more. Who doesn't ask for permission to be different.

It's disorienting. Freeing. Frightening.

Because if I'm not who I thought I was: then who am I?

But maybe that's the real beginning. Not a crisis: a return. Not a breakdown: a breakthrough.

The self isn't a structure to protect. It's a story we're brave enough to rewrite.