I was baptized in 2006, at 25, but didn’t fully figure out what it means to find my identity in Christ until many years later.
When I was young, I realized that who I was, deep down, was not helpful.
I was emotional. I had big feelings, big opinions, big attitude. Some of those traits are fun for a toddler. But as I grew up, I became aware that my core being, my existence as I truly was, was not helpful.
In order to be seen, valued, I needed to be helpful.
My dad started to decline in health when I was 5 years old. I read in notes written by my mom to my children that it was in those first 5 years of my life that she was her happiest, with her whole family intact and healthy.
My brother who’s closest to me in age is 5 years older than me, so as Dad progressively declined over the next 5 years, he had his own struggles as an adolescent, preteen and teenager. I was 10 when Dad died, and the years leading up to it, what I discovered was that my feelings didn’t really matter.
That’s not to say that anyone was intentional in this. But when you’re spending time with young children and caring for a sick spouse, who has time to deal with me? A sensitive, overly emotional child with big big feelings who wants to save the world?
Instead of learning who I was and accepting that, I learned that who I was wasn’t safe or wanted. So I became the helper instead. I helped with tasks that I could with caring for my dad. I helped with chores as I could. I helped with whatever I was able to until I was told to not help, because I was getting in the way or I would do it wrong and it would take time to fix later so it would be best for me not to do it at all.
The helper is part of me naturally. But I used my helper nature to hide and mask other parts the best I could starting at a young age because it was the most palatable part of me. Sometimes other parts would make themselves known, like anger and indignation. One time I overheard my aunt and mom talking about concerns over my temper. They never spoke to me about that discussion or my temper.
I became suicidal by age 12. I had a plan and what stopped me was a professional wrestler, which is a story for another day. (If anyone who knew me wondered why I was so into wrestling, the fact that it saved my life might have had something to do with it 😉.)
For years, the helper persona continued to cultivate into a full identity of people pleasing. The hard-working, people-pleasing woman who had to prove something. Prove that I’m smart, prove that I have value, prove that I can do it, whatever the it is. And I accomplished goals. I would be happy, momentarily. Always momentarily.
Because, in reality, who was I doing it for? Who was I trying to prove what to? The band teacher who hated me and tried to do everything he could to put me down? The people who called me fat as though fat were the only thing a person could be and have no other value? The uncle who would consistently ask about how I was doing in school only to follow up with a comment about how it wasn’t as good as how my cousin was doing?
No, it wasn’t any of those people. It was me.
I was trying to prove to myself that I had value, I had worth, that I meant something. If I continue to give and give, and push, to the point of having nothing left – to do the point of being so empty that driving with no destination, sitting on a bridge and letting myself fall, walking into traffic, or any of the other ideas I had would feel less painful.
Identity came through literally everywhere else. Everyone else. I was living for validation, through positive affirmations of people saying I was doing a great job, that I was a good person, that I was not like other people. I was living for validation, listening to voices that were not my own because I had no voice of my own.
And worse, they were not the real voice I needed to hear.
My identity was in others. My identity was job titles, in successes, in opinions of others. In my darkness, it was in my mistakes, the convictions I held about myself, the horrific words spoken to me by the same people that spoke beautiful words to and about me mere moments before.
Near the end of 2024, 31 years after that first time feeling suicidal and near attempt, and many other periods of ideation, I was at the low point again. The circumstances that got me there led me to where we were at the beginning, ultimately losing my job and setting me free. This time I had so much more to lose than my life. As someone who lost a parent young, I know what that could do to Mason and to Drake. I also knew, in my darkest moments, that they could be better off without me depending on the next steps I take. If I wasn’t careful.
It was then I finally realized I had let all of the wrong voices in my head and in my life. I realized I had no clue who I was. And never really did. My identity, lost so long ago, buried beneath shame and guilt and fear. My identity and value are nothing but that of God’s child. He said Give it to Me. I’ve been here. Come home.
After 18 years since starting my walk with Christ officially, I finally started the journey home.
And while I knew it would not be easy, I also knew in my bones, what peace actually felt like. The mental noise that would keep me up at night finally stopped. And I finally was able to hear the one that mattered. Who was I? God’s child. Big feelings, big attitude, He made me and He wanted, and still wants, all of it for His good. I didn’t need anything more than that, any other approval.
It is so incredibly simple but was earth shattering for me. It changed everything. I started to see everything, past and present, through His eyes. And I knew my future would be for His purpose.
So as Hamilton said to Washington, “Let’s go.”
Good Sky 
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