You know that feeling in junior high when you’re walking down the hall and the popular girl with all Gap clothes and blonde hair (my hair’s brown, so for me she has blonde hair) and a huge smile on her face talks to you, and you get all giddy and wonder, “Maybe I’ll be one of her now?”

Or you’re a freshman sitting around in your college dorm on a Friday night and your roommate, who has already checked out all the bars in town, asks you if you want to go out that night too. That’s sounds like different. And fun. And exciting. You’ve never been to a bar before. You think, “Maybe this is who I am.”

But then you’re conflicted because you didn’t party in high school at. all. You were a good girl. A really good girl. So two nights later at the Bible study only three doors down from the dorm room where you were asked out by your roommate, one of the girls asks you to pray out loud. And that feels good too. Maybe this is me.  Maybe I’m Bible study girl and I should like lead the Bible study next semester. Or major in religion. Or go to seminary. 

Well, I’m 36 years old, and I’m still each of these girls. 

I still don’t know who I am.

I recognized this pattern of somewhat delayed adolescence for the first time in my late 20’s. I was still good girl. I went to church. I led my small group. I served in the children’s ministry. I led the singles co-ed group. I checked all the boxes.

And then I went home. 

At home I dated boys (yes, 35-year-old boys) who I shouldn’t have dated – who, I mind you, also went to church with me and served alongside me before we went to nightclubs and bars far more often than we got to know each other for real. I went to the tanning bed – for the very first time ever in my life – yes, at 28 years old. I bought clothes on credit. Learned to play tennis on credit. But still dreamed of a day when I wouldn’t have to do any of it anymore and could just go back to being me. Whoever that was. 

Most recently blogging, of all things, has brought out this schizophrenic state of not really knowing who I am.  The only thing about having this problem now is that I’m not protected by my age anymore. Thirty-six-year-olds know who they are.

I started out blogging just wanting to be known. If you don’t know, in the blogging world there are a few “cool groups”. One talks a lot about being writers and fearless and the importance of telling our stories and living our dreams. I so want to be one of them. 

Then there are the Christian homemaker bloggers – the mommy bloggers if you will. I tried to get into this group, too, except that I was only a mama-wanna-be at the time. I knew nothing about daily docket printables or menu planning or cleaning schedules. And really it all seemed quite annoying to me. But my dream was to be a mommy. Since I was finally married, it was the perfect time to try to break into this group.

And there’s the theologian blogger types. The ones who are a little more cutting edge and say things that shock people and debate and are really, really smart. Of all the blogs, I like these the most. I learn the most from them. I see the world the most through them. I want to be them too.

Recently a friend said to me something that might seem just downright mean, but it was completely liberating when I heard it. She was referring to the cool group at our church. Yes, we have a cool group of thirty-something year old women at our church who don’t let you in pretty much unless you have a pass. Anyway, my friend said to me, “Brenda, you don’t have the personality to be in that group.”

It’s like the world just released me.

So I’m here to declare that I really don’t know who I am. At, yes, 36 years old. But I know a little more about who I’m not. And right now, that feels pretty good.

Do you feel like you know who you are – at any age?