Lauren Denton
When one of my girls was much younger, she pointed to a woman on TV and said, “I wish that mom was my mom instead of you.”
Gut punch, right?
And it was, a little bit, but I also understood why she said it.
The woman she was talking about looked very much like a princess: long blonde hair, perfect makeup, pretty dress. Frozen fever was running high in those days, and she exuded a pretty exact Elsa vibe. Naturally, my starry-eyed daughter thought, I wish I could live with her forever and maybe she could even be my mommy.
I didn’t take it personally, but it did make me think, “I sure hope she isn’t saying that when she’s 13.” Not that I actually think either of my kids will ever say that to me, but then again, kids are nothing if not surprising. I just hope I’m not surprised in that way!
It’s so easy to find our identity in what kind of parent we are. Subconsciously, or sometimes even consciously, I think, “If I can send the girls out the door in the morning without having all you-know-what break loose, then that means I am a good mom.” Or, “If my daughter and I can get through homework hour and still like each other, then I’m a good mom.”
Underneath all the bath time struggles, the 5 p.m. breakdowns, the laughter and the snuggles, we think, “If they think I’m good, then I’m good.”
Of course we want to raise our kids well and give them joy and do good things for them, and even have them think well of us, but if I base my self-worth on what these small people think of me on a day to day — or even hour to hour — basis, I’m in for a lifetime of roller-coaster emotions and crippling self-doubt. (And yes, I know this tends to go hand in hand with parenthood anyway.)
Not too long ago, my wise friend Holly said something that changed the way I think about identity.
Growing up in church, I’d always heard about how we’re supposed to find our identity in Christ rather than in what people think about us, but sometimes it takes hearing it in a different way to make it sink in.
My friend was talking about a difficult time she was having with one of her kids, and she said, “I had to remind myself that I am not defined by what my 8-year-old thinks of me. I also won’t be defined by what my 16-year-old or my 2-year-old or my 45-year-old thinks of me.”
Her words put a different spin on the idea of what I allow to define me. As much as I love my children … as much as I love my husband, my parents, my brother, my friends … what they think of me doesn’t define who I am.
What readers think when they read my books doesn’t define me, and what my publisher thinks of me as an author doesn’t define me.
Those things are external, and while they’re all very important to me, they can’t affect where my true identity lies.
Finding my identity in Christ means letting him define who I am instead of looking to the world or even to my children or my husband or my parents or the latest reviewer on Goodreads to tell me who I am.
It means I can agree with God when he says I am loved, that he will provide for me, that he hears me and that he’s forgiven me for all my mistakes and messes. It means listening when he says I don’t have to fear.
Naturally this is all easier said than done. My oldest daughter is in a Bible study, and this particular week, they’re learning about identity. I flipped through her book a few nights ago, and it occurred to me that though she’s learning about this at age 9, she’ll probably be relearning it at 13, 16, 45 and so on.
It’s not something you learn once, then you’re done. It’s a slow process of letting go of the lies in your head that say you can’t, you’re not and you never will.
So much in our culture right now says, “Don’t worry about a thing, you’re perfect just as you are,” but I don’t think that’s it either.
We’re not perfect just as we are — far from it, in fact. But if I can keep my mind firmly set on who Christ says I am, then I can work to change those things in me that need to be changed, but rest in the knowledge that who I really am is buried deep in Christ where all the world’s definitions can’t reach.
