Being labeled ‘quiet’ and/or ‘shy’ is not new to me. As a kid, I’ve always been prodded to speak up more. Even as an adult, I’m always the introvert in whatever group I’m in. Which is totally fine by me. I happen to be comfortable with silence, and I like sitting in conversations. I never really feared that I would fade away. That is until my very identity came into question.

(Nice old lady at church): “Hi Cecilia!”
(Me): “Ummmm, hehe, I’m not Cecilia.”
(Nice old lady): “Oh! Well, oh! I’m sor–”
(Me): “My name is Jenn. Kirk. Nice to meet you.”
(Nice old lady): “Oh, nice to meet you too!”

And it kept happening:

*Strange lady waving at me as I’m working at the library*
Me: “Umm, hi?”
Strange lady: “Ayesha? Is that YOU?!”
Me: “Uhhh, no.” meanwhile thinking, ‘What the heck? Do I look black???’
Strange lady: “Oh! I’m sorry! You look just like my friend, Ayesha!”

And kept happening:

(Another nice lady at church): “Hi! How’s Vilma?”
(Me): “What? Who?”
(Nice lady at church): “Oh, wait, your AUNT is named Nilda. YOU’RE Vilma!”
(Me): “Umm, no. My name is Jenn. Kirk.”
(Nice lady at church): “Oh! I’m so sorry! You look just like Vilma!”

Interestingly enough, being a mother has had the opposite effect on what many people assume is inevitable when raising a child; that you “lose” yourself in the culture of high-waisted mom-pants, soap operas, and weight-gain. And there was a time when I’d look into the mirror each day, and not recognize the haunted, crusty-eyed, sleep-deprived face that stared back sullenly. It was a time that I didn’t eat, didn’t shower, didn’t run a comb through my hair, simmered in my pjs all day long–all because I felt I wasn’t deserving of anything better. If there was a scoreboard, it would’ve read Kai: 100, Jenn: 0. I felt miserable. And lost. But this is how motherhood is supposed to be, right?

It was after I sought help for my postpartum depression that I began to see things differently. I started to take care of my basic needs. I got really good at taking five-minute showers, cooking dinner while feeding dinner to Kai, and making a game out of folding laundry. But more importantly, being a mom has forced me to figure out who the heck I am. Desperately not wanting to be pigeon-holed, I’ve made it a point to define my hobbies, my sense of style, the way I wear my hair, the color of my fingernails, the way I design. Even better is that I’m outside the influence of college peers, so I witness no trends to aspire to, or designer jeans and “it” bags worn by sorority girls to lust after. It’s just me and Kai.

While there are still a million things I’d like to improve on, I can generally say that I’m happy with who I am. And I have my husband and Styrofoam-eating son to thank for all the experiences that caused much introspection and soul-searching on my part. I am a chocolate-loving, graphic-designing, wife, mother, and daughter of God. And while that’s only a small part of my identity, it is one that I’m happy with.

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