Pieces of the Identity Pie

geralt via Pixabay

Though I haven't been paying much attention to calendars for the past few days, it's hard not to notice that December is winding down. As someone who writes about organization and, by extension, time management, I can't help but notice that 'tis the season for a new planner.

Who am I kidding? I bought that planner (okay, planners, plural) weeks ago. I love sitting down at the end of December/beginning of January and taking stock -- celebrating successes and making new plans. When I think about doing this, however, I think about getting specific about goals and tasks and lists of things to accomplish, which is ironic since I am typically more global by nature.

I've been thinking a lot about that, too, especially lately. A little less than a year after I retired, I wrote the post below:

It's been over a year since I submitted my letter of intent, more than nine months since my last day of school. I think it's time I changed my name. 

Not my actual name. Though I toyed with more "glamorous" alternatives in my teens and in my twenties, I've always been pretty satisfied with my given name. And, I had the good fortune to marry someone whose last name didn't send me screaming into the night, or off in search of spelling lessons.

The name I need to change is the one I use to identify my profession. It's time.

Although I changed my status on Facebook, I haven't made the leap in real life. School counselor was such a huge part of who I was for nearly three decades that it made me sad to let it go. So, I simply slapped "retired" on as a prefix and kept my identity.

But that's not who I am any more. At least not officially.

But "retired" doesn't fit either. I know it's a stereotype, but to me, retired is early bird dinners and daytime movies and senior citizen discounts. And that's not me.

As I grumbled while ironing a freshly-laundered dust ruffle, then wrestled it onto the bed while formulating blog and story ideas, I decided homemaker wasn't the label I was seeking either. Though I love the stay-at-home mom part of my life, I find the "mom" part much more interesting than the "home" part.

But chatting online yesterday with children's writers about reading periods and book reviews -- that's me. Walking down a hallway in a school building last night with two aspiring writers, imparting my wisdom (such as it is) -- that's me. Sitting at Starbucks this afternoon and holding my breath as I hit the key that sent my submission hurtling through cyberspace -- that's me.

I am a writer.

I have been a writer since Miss Lee introduced me to creative writing and weekly spelling tests when I was in seventh grade -- maybe even before that -- and I've used that moniker for the past twenty years as I squeezed writing time into (and out of) Friday mornings and weekend afternoons and weeknights spent waiting in the car while my daughter danced or played her flute.

But that label has always been subordinate to something else -- a "real" job, offering a paycheck and benefits - something responsible adults do. Responsible adults don't retire at 51 and pursue their dreams while they're still young enough to run after them with both hands outstretched.

Excuse me. Why is it that they don't do that?

Okay, okay, there are a million logical, practical, responsible reasons. But that's exactly what I did, and one of my New Year's resolutions was to stop apologizing for it. So far, I've done very well except for that pesky little matter of the name change. And now that I think about it, it really shouldn't be that hard. One is simply an extension of the other.

Or, more accurately, a correction, because, you see, I'm not retired. I don't have time for early bird specials or afternoon movies.

I'm a writer. And an instructor, and a speaker and a wife and a mom.

A part of me will always be a school counselor, and I bring that to the table every day, whether I'm teaching aspiring writers, doing a presentation or advising a friend. So, I don't really need to let it go completely -- at least not until it lets go of me. All I need to do is reverse the order of the labels.

I'm a writer. And a former school counselor.

Nothing retired about it.

While that last line rings true now more than ever, lately I've been wondering once again which label fits. In reading my course evaluations yesterday, I had to smile at one comment which likened our first year seminar classes to counseling sessions for freshmen (the student seemed to mean that in a good way); apparently the school counselor is still alive and kicking. And here I sit, typing a blog post (on time once again, now that classes have ended), so part of writer-me is clearly in evidence.

But the post above was written about a month before I interviewed at York College. Since then, the position has expanded in ways I never could have imagined and once again, I find that "educator" takes the biggest piece of the identity pie. Since I love what I do, this isn't a bad thing; I only regret that the pie isn't bigger so that one role doesn't so successfully crowd out all the others.

skeeze via Pixabay

As I sit down to plan my wishes, hopes, dreams and goals for 2018, I might just draw that pie. I like all of the pieces of me that I've embraced over the past five years, so now the challenge is figuring out which goals I have for each of them and how they all fit together.

Four years after the post above, I remain a writer. And a former school counselor. And a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, an educator and a performer. It's busy in here, but it's all good.

I just need to be realistic about how many ingredients can go into this pie. With a little imagination and a lot of planning, perhaps there's more room than I think.