The Power in Defining Who You Are

If you don’t, others will do it for you

My mother’s name was Marguerite, not Marge. But somewhere in time, someone called her Marge and it stuck. She confided in me that she hated the name Marge. She wanted to be called Marguerite — who wouldn’t? She had the name of a flower!

I remember thinking she should just tell everybody to stop calling her Marge. But my mom let others define her.

Have you ever let others define you?

Perhaps it’s happened to you in a season of life or at a particular place in time, in your workplace or school, or within a family unit.

If we don’t define who we are, others will do it for us. They may peg us as incompetent, or shy, or angry, or a dumb blonde. They’ll use snippets of our personality or a few words we wrote in an email to label and categorize us, usually for their benefit.

We do this all the time with celebrities and politicians. We create an image of a person and then view everything they say and do through that lens. Sometimes that’s exactly what they want us to do. They sharpen and hone that image until they’re no longer real people, just one-dimensional paper dolls.

Social media contributes to the shallow analysis of others, too. But people are more than just what we see on the surface or how we judge them by past events and choices they’ve made.

My sister once said, “Nobody is all good or all bad. Bad people do good things and good people do bad things.”

That got me thinking. We are all more complex than what others see on the surface.

I’m sure if you asked a wide sampling of people who’ve interacted with me over the years what I’m like you’d get an almost schizophrenic picture of me.

That’s because some people, like my friend Tracy, have taken the time to sit with me and create a space where I can be me. She listens to what I’m saying with my heart. I think she knows me.

Tracy will probably tell you that I’m sensitive and thoughtful and love things of the spirit.

My childhood friends will have a different definition of me — they’ve known me through many changes and highs and lows.

If you talked with former co-workers of mine they might tell you I’m serious, hard-working, tough, and no-nonsense.

But if you asked my husband about me you’d be certain he was referring to a different Mary. He’d tell you about the woman who talks to animals and plants and trees, who cries during Lady and the Tramp, names inanimate objects, and dances around the house with her dogs.

My kids would describe a compulsive cleaning woman who sometimes sets unrealistic expectations for herself and her family.

When I bought a camper, a co-worker said she was shocked. I didn’t strike her as the “camping type”. Wasn’t I all froo-froo and high maintenance? I wondered who she was speaking to because it certainly wasn’t me. The girl who loved to be in nature, swam in ponds, climbed trees, romped barefoot through the woods, and planted gardens without gloves so she could feel the dirt on her hands?

But she had an image of me she had created from slices of interactions with me.

Someone else commented on my life during a major transformation. You’ve changed so much I hardly recognize you. To which I replied, “I guess you never really knew me.” Because for me, I wasn’t changing, I was coming home.

The world is constantly assessing what we say and do, eager to place us into boxes they can define and control.

If you don’t tell the world who you are, they’ll do it for you. If you’re a Marguerite and not a Marge, let the world know!

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