The Stages of Identity

I’m not one to put too much stock into New Year’s Resolutions. Every previous promise or goal that I’ve spoken into existence has never quite turned out the way I wanted. Or never turned out at all. And January always ends up feeling a little bit disappointing. A little sad. A little disheartening. 

This year feels different. And I know that “this time is going to be different” has to be one of the most well-loved and very well-used cliches for people hoping the New Year will birth successful resolutions. But I think this year I really do mean it. Because my resolution for this year isn’t to change some aspect of who I am, or make myself into someone I don’t really want to be. Instead, 2020 has me thinking about identity. 

More specifically, I sat in my living room over this holiday season (surrounded by more family than should be able to comfortably fit in such a small space) and was struck by how much of my identity stays glued to the bottom of my tongue, too stubborn to come out, whenever I’m around people who have known me the longest. Those who stood and watched me get baptized. Prayed over me when I got sick. Do the sign of the cross over my forehead before I go on any trip. Those who love me and love God. Those who love the comfortable bubble they exist in where they know me but don’t Know Me. People I love and respect and sometimes fear would not love me the same way if I were more specific about my exes. If they knew there was a Sarah before Jacob. And a few others in between. 

They love me. They would love me. They will love me. With absolute certainty. But the color of that love might be just a little bit faded. The pulse slightly sluggish. Slightly out of focus. 

I had a little knot in my throat for four years, being far away from my family for so long. But still I felt most like myself when I was 2,000 miles away from my childhood. And that was also something I’ve had to grapple with. Fight myself on. Because what kind of person feels like they’re drowning a little more every day they’re back with their family? Little pieces of myself chipping away with each day that I’m vague about what I expect in a relationship or see in my future. 

My identity isn’t something I’m ashamed about. Being bisexual is part of who I am. And I’ve been comfortable with who I am for quite a while now, despite all the messy feelings and questioning as I came to know myself. Despite the continued messiness as I try and navigate my identity in a comfort zone I don’t quite want to leave. 

The poems below are various different meditations how I’ve travelled toward embracing myself and my continuance toward being able to really enjoy who I am as a person with everyone around me, no longer walking carefully in half-truths and shadows. 

•

i. in the stillness after a heavy snow

i followed across white-dusted pavement
and let my own s h o e p r i n t s guide my steps
with the sound of my heels a muted gray

f 

a

d

i

n

g

followed in blurry circles with questions spiked and bloody
on my tongue as i moved deeper into trees and empty

space

follow when ice flings into my face from branches shaking
and icicles digging bruises into my arms flung and raised
to the dark sky spill-

ing

i follow to maintain balance
on the tip of my blade and not 

  fall

through the cracks i leave

ii. ear pressed to the shared wall

mama sometimes i can’t smother the quiet 
whispers that unfurl between the widening cracks 
of ichor & sorrow & sickly sweet melody

you look at me sometimes like you’re waiting 
for the shadows stuck behind my teeth
to knock loose & fall into your cupped hands

mama when my blood begins to spill 
from between closed lips please swipe
it down my forehead & across both cheeks

there are days i smile & it tastes like bile
coming up until you tell me you love
my dimples & braid my hair tight

days where i cry because i’m bubbling
inside & you look at me like you would
fight the tears on my face to keep me dry

mama did you know i press my ear to the wall
every night to hear you breath & match
inhales to your every exhale until i fall asleep

---

Isabella is a writer with a focus on the culture/superstition of a Mexican household and how that relates to sexuality, gender dynamics, and grief/trauma. 

Raised in Southern California by Mexican parents and grandparents, the magic and eccentricities of her culture were a part of her everyday life. With food and family being such an important part of her life, she found herself gravitating toward kitchen witch practices. 

You can find her on Twitter and Instagram at @izellerbach or her website.