Identity in Christ

Somewhere along the line, the voices in my head that helped me write stories and think through problems started using their powers for evil. Did that really happen, my brain would ask me, or did you just dream it up? It wouldn’t pick at the big, important events; it would just question small details. Did Mom really tell you that, or did you make that up? Are you sure anyone would believe you if you said that out loud? No one else seems to remember that— you’re probably wrong. Your friends will think you’re stupid.

Tiny questions and doubts that on their own didn’t do much but together managed to chip away at the self-confidence that had seemed so effortless growing up. By college, it felt like my brain was some frenemy that might
I can't remember the day. It wasn't like in the movies where the girl slowly brings her face up to the mirror and she suddenly feels different. It did not arrive suddenly, and I didn't even see it happening. I noticed it more and more, that I looked in the mirror and I hated what I saw. When I looked, I cringed. I did whatever I could to do to get away from that mirror and move on with my day. As I went on with the mundane chores I had on my agenda, I felt a heaviness. I felt a weakness. It transformed from “well….It will have to work for today” to “I can't look at myself at all today”. Looking at the mirror and hating what I saw was starting to turn me into a different person. I didn't want to be around people anymore. I stopped caring about myself. I would stop doing my hair and my makeup, I wouldn't
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

It’s one of the first questions people ask us as little children. Truth be told, it doesn’t seem to matter very much what the answer is. Teacher? Doctor? Dinosaur hunter? The important thing seems to be that, even at three or four years old, we are already figuring out who we are as individuals and forging our paths into adulthood. As we age, we are met with advice to find ourselves, and if we try that for a while we might start to categorize ourselves. We might be free spirits, or businesswomen, or life-long learners, or homemakers. We start throwing our enneagram type and our horoscope into the mix, desperately trying to sort out and define what
Even now, eleven years later, I can still remember the first time a boy pointed out a pimple on my face. We were standing in the lunch line and he mentioned it. That’s it. He just pointed it out and turned back around after I made a face at him, eyes burning with tears. To him it was a simple observation, but to me it was the soul-crushing realization that other people could see my flaws that I tried to keep far away from the daylight. That moment started a years-long battle against my skin, and even my own identity.

At first, it seemed I might just get a few pimples like some of my friends. Pimples that you’d notice, but that would go away within a few days. I reasoned