Identity Crisis

Getting to know the person behind the labels. A story of motherhood, marriage, and reclaiming self.

I was pregnant at 17. Birthed my son at 18.

I moved from the Bay to San Diego to live with my Dad and stepmom. While she took care of my son, I put my head down and finished a nine-month medical assistant program. When I finally headed back to the Bay, I wasn’t just a teenage mom; I was a working mother.

I came back with my own car, too. A Toyota Corolla. It had exactly seven miles on it when I drove it off the lot. Lol. What a blessing! I had saved every cent I could from public assistance, and my daddy covered the rest to make sure I returned home with reliable transpo.

I did an externship and worked a few temp jobs before finally landing a permanent position as a medical assistant in maternal-fetal medicine. During that season of making life better for us, my son and I lived with my mom, my stepdad, and multiple siblings. I am the oldest of seven in that household, which meant there was never a dull moment. My last two brothers hadn’t joined the mix yet, but the house was definitely full of energy, love, and constant movement—the kind of beautiful busyness, that meant you were never alone.

We lived there, and at the same time, I had a budding “romance” on the horizon. I’d been infatuated with him for a short time, and soon we were hanging together constantly. It led to an inseparable union, but eventually, that union reared its evil head. An abusive relationship revealed itself. But that’s a conversation for a different essay.

Thinking back to all these people in my life at that time and about the fact that I was still just 23 or 24 years old. I went straight from child to teenager to young adult, always with someone close by. I never had a space of my own, per se. I mean, I did move out of my family home into my own apartment—a one-bedroom that eventually became our apartment. My son had the bedroom, and the living room held the futon that converted into my bed at night. It was just me and the kid at first, but then he made his move. He lived with me. We eventually got married, but it ended soon after under the weight of violence, cheating, and his drug addiction.

This story could go so many ways, but let me focus. This essay is about my identity.

My identity had been attached to other people for so long that when it was finally time to show up for myself—to know who I actually was—it became complicated.

Fast-forward through the end of that first marriage, through a long-term relationship with an alcoholic (boy, did I know how to pick ‘em), and then finally to the marriage I am in now. We’ve been together for 27 years. We brought three children into our union: he had two sons, I had my son, and then we had two more—a son and a daughter.

A household of seven. Something I was used to growing up, having so many siblings. I poured everything into my children and my husband. Being a supportive wife took a minute, though; I had to work through the lingering effects of my past. I wasn’t quick to give up my skepticism. I had to ask myself if this was real, if it was deserving of my commitment and trust. Was he deserving of my commitment and trust? Remember, I had just come out of two long-term situations defined by addiction and trickery. But again—another essay for another time.

I was a mom, a wife, and a bonus mom. They got all of me. I struggled with the “stepmother” role at times. Shit, I was still learning how to mother my own child, and suddenly I was navigating children who didn’t come from my womb while their mother was still very much in the picture. That… was a learning experience! A little more challenging than I had anticipated. Looking back, I could have been more mature in a lot of ways.

Our children were active—basketball, plays, musicals, football, dance. We made every effort to be present for all of it. Then life progressed, they slowly, one by one, began to move into adulthood. They became responsible for themselves, and eventually, the oldest three became responsible for children of their own.

Suddenly, I was no longer the chauffeur, the schedule manager, the event organizer, or the volunteer.

It was time for me to focus on me. I don’t regret being totally committed to my children during their growing years, but I do wonder… Could I have created more space to get to know myself early on so I wouldn’t be here trying to figure it all out now? Hindsight is 20/20.

Of course, my husband is still here. He still needs me, but it’s not like the needs of a child. It’s a different kind of commitment.

So, I find myself in this identity crisis. I honestly thought I’d already wrestled this thing to the ground, settled it and moved on – Nope!

As it resurfaces, I recognize that I must be gentle with myself. I am learning me. I am discovering what I actually need, what makes me smile, and what makes me laugh. I’m even learning to admit when I don’t actually like something I only said I liked to keep the peace.

I’m learning all things Ayesha and I appreciate this space I am in.

Have you ever hit this type of crossroad? When did it click for you and what did that first step feel like?