who am I?

Identity is a complicated beast. My recent identity was formed through years of laying down roots. Roots in a home, roots in a community, roots in a city. Nine years is a long time in one place, longest I have ever been in one place actually. When those nine years are in NYC, I consider that a lifetime. Roots don’t grow easily in all that concrete - I had to bust and break through until those roots were strong and deep.

Last August I pulled up those roots and moved them to Cincinnati. Actually, it feels like I chopped the roots off at the tree trunk - moved the trunk and left the roots hanging out in Harlem. I hope they’re having a good time. 

I arrived to the city a 22 year old wife, I left a 32 year old widowed mother. I arrived a new nursing assistant, left an experienced nurse practitioner. I arrived a church newby, left a seasoned community group leader. I arrived a little girl from Kentucky, and left a New Yorker. 

Why did I leave? Why did I move back home? That's also complicated but also simple. Someone very close to me was/is ill and after much prayer and tears the decision was made to move back home. Seven months later, I can tell you it was the right decision, but it doesn't make it suck less. 

I have been unable to write since leaving NYC because I didn’t want to deal with reality. Writing would mean admitting I had left, that I’m no longer the widow in 4J.

Now what, without those roots, who am I now? It’s a question I can’t answer right now, but desperately want to, need to. 

Moving to a new city, a new job, a new home, a new church - I’m not sure who I am anymore. The only thing that didn’t change about my life is I am a follower of Jesus and Georgie's mama - and understanding what that means is a whole other ball of worms - that’s the saying right. 

It feels as though I have been stripped of my identity - again. I went through this after losing Marcus, who was I if not Marcus’s wife? Obviously I became comfortable enough with that new identity, hence the title of my blog.

The “widow in 4J” actually came from a conversation with a friend about the absurdity of being a young widow and the likelihood of neighbors hearing me cry through the walls and say - “Oh, must be the widow in 4J again”. I had a certain pride in that identity. Now, who am I if not the widow in 4J? Am I now the widow in my grandmother's house? Is it two widows and a South African? I make jest, but identity is hard. Without roots I feel at times lost. 

None of it is as dramatic as I make it out to be. I have not been stripped, my roots have not been cut off. I still carry with me the identity of Marcus’s wife, I will carry with me my identity of the widow in 4J, and I will proudly carry my identity of a New Yorker. Just like I’ll carry with me whatever comes next. Now, if I could just know what's coming next.