The Wilderness of the True Self: Reflections on Identity

By Vanam Nadhasree

As every story starts once upon a time, I’ll start mine in the same manner.

Once upon a time, I was a brown girl born to my parents, who thought they made me out of love. Maybe they are correct; maybe they are not. Back in those days, for me, love was subjective, either changing or fading with time and space.

Like every child I had two worlds. One was made up of dreams, and the other was reality. In the world of dreams, I could control and make necessary changes to my identity. In reality, everything was exactly the opposite to the fairy tale I wished I lived in.

As a child, I missed my childhood by watering it with fears, deceit, sins. It is in those early days of life that the seeds of identity plants itself in you. But what if the seed itself is rotten, fake and lifeless? What if it’s bruised, wounded and scattered?

I was good, obedient, sincere, hard-working. The brightest daughter. That was the first identity I made myself wear.

Moving forward in time, I wanted to form a community where I and my friends could expand our horizons, but this community took a toll on my emotions when I learnt that I was played at for their fun. The people I thought were my friends were not friends at all.

Moving on in time further, I pleased people to be loveable and added that hideous quality to my identity costume. It is then that many men and women wanted to destroy my body and mind in a way that meant I would never be able to pick myself back up.

My transformation was not easy. I never focused on self-respect, and I never had any love for myself. Instead, I chased after the love of others for years, a reason for the changing identities.

Then came all the anxiety, depression, anti-social behaviour, low self-esteem, wrath and rage and want. Then came the sadness and the sleepless nights.

I stopped listening to my body and carried trauma like a crown. I consented to the most manipulative desires put forth by people around me for a moment of love and a glimpse of warmth. Innocence no longer resided inside me and the soul in me withered.

I was a caterpillar in a cocoon in the beginning of my story, suffocated. I wanted to rip the cocoon so I could breathe in some air, but I learnt the sense of freedom this would create would be fleeting. Short-cuts would only delay my metamorphosis.

I chose a longer process. By healing and connecting to myself, I found my identity.

Identity is accepting who I am rather than who I want to be and how I want to be seen. Art is my identity. Being compassionate is my identity. Self-love is my identity. This body I call home is my identity, where I can nurture my soul and let it dance in real joy until I wrinkle. Connecting with the mother within me to care for my inner child is my identity.

I am not my gender. I am not the colour of my skin. I am not perfect. This wholeness and this bundle of life I carry inside is my identity. My imperfections are my absolute identity.

To love is to not deny any part of you. Accepting the light and darkness within you is unconditional love, and it is only through unconditional love we can have an identity that’s cosmic. My identity is divine.

This is my story. I explored until I found where I belonged. I belong everywhere but mostly and firstly I belong to myself, not to anyone else.

This is the story of my transmutation into a butterfly who has seen light by experiencing darkness. This identity that I earned for myself, free from utter chaos, is now flying in the open skies of freedom.