Finding Myself

I'm well aware of all my identities, past and present. I wear them like masks - some, I have even worn like capes. Proudly displaying them for the world to see and admire. I used to believe that I could "put on" one identity and be authentic, and then "put on" another one and still the authentic. And at least in my heart I was authentic. Natalya, the 16-year-old poet was an authentic identity for me; Natalya, the Journalist was a thrilling identity (that came with an official badge and access to many venues and people I would have otherwise not been able to get close to); Natalya, the Foreigner was (and continues to be!) my favorite identity, the one with which I feel most at ease. Perhaps because it is the simplest one, the one that requires the least amount of work from my side: I just happen to not have been born where I live. I have been living with this identity for 22 years.

Most recently, Rolfs-Mutter and Christophs-Mama have joined the ranks of my favorite identities. I remember being so deeply offended when people forgot or misspelled my name; but the fact that, to a group of little kids, the whole reason for my existence is to be their friend's mother, that made me feel a sense of completeness that I had never felt before (I know, it sounds super lame and cliché: you will never know true love until you have kids, blah blah blah. I don´t agree with this and and I am in no sense advocating that everyone should have plenty of kids - it is a very personal, very serious decision. For me, it was the right one). I am saved on several phones as Rolfs Mama, which I find charming... because so many of my kids' friends' moms are also saved like this.  

Somewhere between The Poet and The Mom, I got married and also became The Wife. Frau Hergett. I willingly and voluntarily (the redundance is very much on purpose!!) renounced my name and chose to follow German law in order to use my husband's name. (Upon marriage, spouses can choose a "Family Name" or keep their own names - we chose a Family Name, which is not possible under Colombian law.) Somewhere between The Poet and The Wife, I also became an Employee, and I was good. And further down the road, I acquired so many different identities, again, that it was hard for me to find The One with which I felt most like myself. I joined the PTA, I was always down for some wine, apparently my Mexican cooking is "super authentic", I sew and paint and create things with my kids; I have a garden with flowers and fruits and vegetables and herbs; I jog (seldom and randomly and I hate it - but I do it). I clean, I cook, I help with homework; I read books, I watch movies. 

There comes a time, though, when something triggers a nasty thought: WHO are you? WHO am I? Because I have been defined by my actions, by my family, by my nationality. But WHO am I?

I have been recently told that "I gave myself up" and that I "lost myself", or that I am "a lot cooler than just someone's wife." Just as recently, I read a post about a woman my age, from my hometown, also married and also a mom, who was posing the question whether one can be a good mother AND a good writer simultaneously. (Spoiler alert: the answer is no.) And it made me think... how many things do I do for others, to ensure their basic well-being or their utmost happiness (and everything in between), and how many things do I do FOR ME?

Also spoiler alert: very few, because I do not have the time. Yet I find the time for everyone else's priorities. Why have I placed myself off of my priority list? I'm not even at the bottom, I'm just not there. I have plenty of good excuses and explanations, but the fact of the matter remains that I have stopped paying attention to myself and, in doing so, I have lost myself. How long have I been lost?!

I am not sure what kind of movies I like (sorry, Knights of Cinema. But I do LOVE your podcast!). I am not sure what my favorite food is (whatever I do not have to cook) or what my favorite ice-cream flavor is. I don't know what kind of music I like (my playlist is a mixture of kids' music and songs OTHER people love) or what kind of clothing style I prefer. I don't know what I want to drink and I don't know what I want to do (both literally and metaphorically). 

I don't know who I am. When I take all of my identity masks off, I. DO. NOT. KNOW. WHO. I. AM.

I'm 40, but that's a fact, not an identity. I'm a mom, also a fact, not an identity. And it is about damn time that I figure out who I am.

One thing is clear for me: on this journey to Finding Myself, the one thing that is constant is that I Once Was A Writer and that I feel at peace when I write. Just look at the last 10 posts, how deep and infrequent and introspective they are. Sad, even? 

Maybe I am sad. Maybe I need to be sad in order to wipe off the masks and just start off with a clean slate trying to figure out who I am. I once read that in order to be a writer, the only thing you have to do is WRITE. So here I am, writing. I'm not sure who's reading. I'm not sure if I have anything to say that's wroth reading.  I'm not sure if I want to say what I have to say, or if I should. But that's all unimportant because in this journey to Finding Myself there is only one thing that matters.

MYSELF.