When Did You Become a...
Luckily, my kids are young enough not to be asked often, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” When, inevitably, they are, I hope they’ll look at their interrogators like they’re slightly dense, and say something like, “Content.”
It seems like that question, absurd as it is (and it is), is one of the earliest of many times in life we lean into labels--both those we ascribe to ourselves and the ones we accept from others.
The truth is that most of us are many things, some of which are oppositional. We are parents and children, loyal friends and reclusive solitudinarians. The roles we play and the labels we take on shift with our contexts. Sometimes we are quiet, observant, wallflower types; others we take charge like generals (or, at least, well-rehearsed tour guides).
But most of us also have some sense of self that underlies who we are on a level more fundamental than those shifting roles. We are Jews or Christians or Hindus or Muslims; we are Republicans or Democrats or fed up with the two-party system. We give certain labels and roles precedence over others: First and foremost, I’m a [fill in the blank], and that matters more than anything else I may be.
As we learn new skills, pursue new passions, indulge shifting curiosities throughout life, we might take on a lot of labels. In different phases, we naturally lean more into some than others. But how often do we permit ourselves to drop an identity altogether?
I used to run 30-40 miles a week. I’ve probably logged less than 100 miles in the past year. Somehow, I still think of myself as a runner.
Why? I certainly don’t feel like a runner when I run. I don’t prioritize running in my day-to-day life. It’s been literal years since I’ve run on average more than two or three times a month.1
I’m not sure whether it matters; if it does, I’m not sure why it matters. Instead of being (not much of) a runner, could I just be a person who likes to go for a run sometimes? If I just release the last grasp I have on the label, might I actually feel better—less expectant and maybe more joyful—when I actually go for a run? Would I then run more? Would I become a runner again?
I have a hunch that if we all took inventory of the labels we’ve worn over time, we might find several that no longer serve us (or we no longer serve). So maybe it’s worth just asking the question, and seeing what answer comes up: When did you become a…? Does it still fit?
Maybe instead of being the thing, we can just do the thing, and drop the baggage. The weather looks pretty good tomorrow. I’m thinking about going for a run.
I don’t think I would even wholeheartedly claim the label “runner” in conversation. I’d probably say it like, “I used to run a lot, but I’m not much of a runner anymore”—as if, perhaps, to suggest that I’m still a little bit of a runner, even if I don’t really do much, you know, actual running anymore.