Why I’m Giving Up On Labels
I’ve been thinking about labels lately. Not the labels on the sides of cereal boxes or on jars of pickles, but the labels that society gives us.
When I was a child, my mother labeled me lazy, crazy, and a bad big sister from a very early age. My classmates labeled me weird and annoying. My teachers labeled me smart but shy. Don’t even get me started on my weird teenage years.
One day, out of nowhere, boys started noticing me. They noticed me in the worst way starting when I was just 12 years old because I grew boobs quicker than the other girls in class. I didn’t know it then, but eventually, my boobs would earn me the labels of sexy and curvy.
I spent most of my life being desired by men because of my boobs. When I was 20, I met a man who desired me and married him early on. His labels for me were sexy, hot, and, probably, naive. (He was 29 when we started dating.)
When that man left me at 21, three months pregnant, the people around me labeled me an idiot. They all told me, “I told you so.”
When I say all, I don’t mean that as an exaggeration. There wasn’t one person in my life who didn’t tell me, “I told you so.” Some repeated the phrase for years afterward. But that’s a story for another day.
After my son was born, society labeled me a single mother, welfare mother, “young mother” (said as though I were a teenager, not a 22-year-old divorcee), etc. Once when I was 24 or 25, a coworker, who I guess didn’t know I was divorced, called me an “unwed mother.” My own mom frequently called me a bad mother.
When I came out of the closet as bisexual at the age of 35, Christian culture labeled me a sinner. Some friends shrugged it off and said they already knew. Some labeled me a confused lesbian. Some labeled me a straight girl going through a phase.
Most of my labels have not been “nice” labels. So why am I telling you this? It’s not to get your pity. I promise you that. It’s because I’m turning 40 in 75 days.
I’m turning 40 in 75 days, and I’m, frankly, tired of everyone else’s labels for me. Because who the f really cares? I’ve let other people label me — and worse, I believed their labels for me were true — for the better part of 40 years, and what has it gotten me?
I’m about to turn 40, and I’ve spent so long loathing myself because of my labels that I’ve blocked blessings from pouring down on me. Because I believed my labels, I haven’t allowed another man (or woman) to woo me in well over a decade. Because I believed my labels, I kept my social circle small, minuscule even. Because of my labels, I dropped out of college at least seven times. Because of my labels, I was afraid to chase my dreams.
Well, I am done.
I am done allowing the labels that other people placed on me to dictate how I live my life.
I deserve good things. I deserve to fall in love. I deserve friends who love, respect and admire me. I deserve to chase every dream I’ve ever dreamt up for myself.
I’m not saying I deserve any of these things because I’ve earned them. I don’t need to earn them. I’m already worthy of them just because I am. And so are you.
So take it from a woman who has wasted almost 40 years of her life believing that the labels placed on her by everyone else were true — you get to decide who you are. I wish I’d realized that sooner, but you can be damn sure I know it now.
