The Polarity of Identity Work

Experience without theory is blind, but theory without experience is mere intellectual play.

~ Immanuel Kant

Disclaimer: this is not a scientific or technical piece. There aren’t any broadly applicable conclusions. It’s an anecdote and reflection on personal experiences.

A close friend once relayed her experiences around emotion. In the before times, emotions felt like maybe 3 buttons to push. There wasn’t much room for nuance, but they kind of got the job done. Now there seems to be limitless layers, cross-sections, and permutations of emotion.

It’s an interesting thing to experience this apparent polarity of the deeply subconscious layers in our brains that impact so much of our lives. Who knew there could be so many icky sensations of frustration?¹ Or happiness that tantalizes the mind like the depth of a delicious mole? The pain that only the tightest of compression can start to soothe. The confidence of knowing how I have examined all these perspectives trying to find my way to the nuanced, messy, and often unapologetic truth.

Seriously where in the world does all of this come from? Hormones likely play some role, though not in the double bind way that the patriarchy imposes on women. You know the one where a woman (or someone not presenting in the cultural boundaries of masculinity) is told that having emotions reduces the ability to think critically. Meanwhile, the man is allowed to engage in minimal empathy or emotional labor. There is a risk within masculinity of embracing emotional intelligence too much and alerting the sentries guarding said fabricated barriers. Emotionally empathetic men do exist, despite these arbitrary and harmful confines society creates.

Is it hormones, or is it identity work? The personal façade existed for so long. What does it even feel like to have it off? Is this experience uncomfortable because I don’t like it, or because I never imagined doing this? As the core begins to solidify the questions of why did I not do this sooner make their grand appearance—simultaneously exuberating and filled with grief.

The confidence grows as more pieces feel secure. It’s a lot to identify the central aspects of identity which haven’t fundamentally changed. To understand how they may present differently. To admit that even with masterful skills at scaffolding the façade, I still knew that something wasn’t right. I may have repressed the specific answer out of sight for decades, but it still showed up unexpectedly. Gnawing at whatever ennui it thought might finally reinforce that connection and encourage the necessary and difficult reflection.

That would be a picturesque way to conclude a story, but life isn’t Disney or whatever other gatekeeper of happiness and dopamine serves in their place. The new found confidence is squashed across multiple vectors. Wait, I thought self understanding was a good thing?! Do we not value authentic interactions? Or does that only apply as long as people aren’t challenged to sit in shared discomfort? The Rejection Sensitivity Disorder kicks in again, delighted to freeze me in place.

The cycle continues. The straw person spiral of RSD is broken down, with the help of internal reflection, yoga, and friends. The nuances are recognized and considered. The words of Audre Lorde and other intersectional feminists and advocates soothes the soul in solidarity. It’s ok to feel all of the emotions, process them, and reflect. They are woven into the tapestry of life’s experiences. Tears are made and mended. The various experiences of a life don’t always make sense or seem fair. I regroup with community, ready to once engage in the world across intersectional identities that it is not designed for.

But yep, it’s probably just the hormones. 🤪