True Story

One of my favorite pieces of writing, recently, is a blog post by author Sarah Bessey entitled Off Brand. In it, Bessey uses her marketing background to explore the idea of branding--the way that companies try to define their corporate identity by establishing parameters that say, "this is who we are, this is what we do, this is how we do it"--and how it also applies to individual identity. A brand, she says, is the story we are telling about ourselves to the world, and it is reflected in both the way others think about us, and the way we think about ourselves.

The concept of identity is a fluid one, and as such, it can change many times over a lifetime. As we grow and change, as our circumstances shift, or as events require, the primary way we define ourselves must naturally evolve to fit. Sometimes this process is gradual, an expected part of our life trajectory; sometimes it is desired and even highly anticipated. Sometimes, it is mandated by the advent of tragedy, the circumstances of necessity, or simply the fact that life contains surprises that even the most prescient of us cannot hope to foresee. In those cases, Bessey says, we can sometimes experience an impulse to hold to our brand--to keep telling the same story--even when it no longer reflects what is true or best for us or those we love. "Sometimes," she says, "the story we tell ourselves about our own lives can become a prison, it can keep us from the real life that is waiting for us."

This idea resonates so strongly with me. Bessey's own story of struggle with brand transition is one of mothering, of how the experience of both birth and parenting with her youngest child was so different than the story she had previously told of herself as a mother that she believed she had failed both herself and her daughter. But I have experienced some of this same struggle many times in my life, as I have gone from wife, to teacher, to mother, to homemaker, to....well, whatever it is I am right now. I remember my shock at realizing, almost a full year after the change had happened, that someone who is working full-time hours probably should no longer think of herself as a stay-at-home-mom; somehow, my brain had failed to make the transition. No wonder I felt like such a terrible stay-at-home-mom. I wasn't one. And lest you think I learned my lesson over time, don't forget how recently you have heard me speak in these pages about sitting down with my sons and concluding that maybe it was no longer a reasonable expectation for us to gather at the table around a home-cooked meal every night; being a full-time (or more) working single parent of teenagers is yet another shift in brand from being a working wife, partner, and co-parent of young children. I was trying to tell an old story, and failing--the inevitable result when the story we try to tell about our lives no longer matches the reality.

Of all the times my brand has changed, however, none was more difficult than the realization that I must close the book on the story of teaching as my lifetime calling. I was a teacher, from a family of teachers, and I had known from my earliest days that I would always be a teacher. Those of you who know me have probably heard me talk about how, when I was very young, I didn't know that a person could grow up and be anything else--I thought everyone was a teacher. This was not about a career. This is who I was. That remained true as I finished my education, as I worked odd jobs looking for my first employment, and when I finally reached that milestone, my own classroom in my own school. I loved every student, every experience, every minute. I was where I belonged. But life, as it has a way of doing, intervened. My husband got a new job out of state. We had a baby, and then another. When people asked, "What do you do?" I still kept saying, "I'm a teacher," but I fretted about how many years I was missing in the classroom, how few I'd gotten to spend there, how few would be left to me. Time passes so quickly; so soon, I wasn't young anymore. And at some point it came time to realize that I would not only take, but had already taken, a different path. I was not a teacher. I would not be a teacher. It's hard to describe the depth of my lament for this loss--I was inconsolable.

As more time has passed, I have had the opportunity to do many other things, none of which would have been possible had I held to the story I had always imagined instead of the one that presented itself. I even had the opportunity to teach again, this time in a completely different setting and a completely different way, and it is an experience so close to my heart that I would never trade it for anything else I can possibly envision. And when the possibility presented itself of returning to the classroom in the way I once dreamed of, I found that not only my life, but even myself, had changed in ways that meant I would no longer choose that path, even if I could. I work now at a job I love, for a cause I am passionate about, with incredible people, and in a way that is perfect for me and my family, the way we are right now. And I suppose I believed that my past identity was in the past.

In fact, I suppose the reason I have so often had difficulty with telling a new story to myself and to the world about who I am, is that I have believed that all my past identities are in the past--that embracing the new story means replacing the old. But this week, I've had cause to reconsider. 

On Facebook, I got a message. "Miss Sheltra, were you my fourth grade teacher?" A former student, now grown, of course. And I cannot tell you what it has been like to look at his pictures, hear about his amazing life and accomplishments, and to be told that, in his story, I am remembered. So I have been thinking about what happens when our lives change, when circumstances shift, and our story changes. Until now, without evidence to the contrary, I have felt that each new story represents a loss of the old--that all the previous people I was, stories I told, must be discarded as no longer valid, having no more value, now that there is a new and better version. But I have been wrong. A good story is always a good story.

My student's voice has been, for me, like a marker that proves the ongoing existence of that other, former me. It testifies to the continued reality of a story I am no longer living. "You were the best; I always remember you." I am someone else now; but I was there, and I am still a player in that story. All is not lost or forgotten. I was there, and all the stories are still true.

Life is unpredictable, and time and circumstances may create of us a different parent, spouse, friend, or simply a different person. In our lifetimes, the story of who we are will change, and change, and change again.  But all the stories remain true; all still hold value; there is room for all to be beloved. No matter how many times you may find yourself re-invented, you are still all the people you have been. You have not lost yourself. The work you have done, the lives you have touched, the time you have invested--their worth has not diminished. You have made a difference. You matter. Not just the you in the story you are telling now, but the you in all the stories you have told or will tell. Everything good that has come out of each of them remains, and you carry it with you. You were there, and all the stories are you--they are still you.