When I think of my identity, what comes to me foremost is the make-up of my mind. If prompted with “Who Am I?” I would describe myself entirely by articulating my values, my ideas, and my imagination. These are the most prominent things that lay the foundation of who I am, and I believe that they are the most compelling bits about me. It would never even occur to me to use the features of my physical form to describe myself. Sure, that is how I can be identified, and sure, if the context was your need to spot me in a crowd, I may describe the color of my shirt or how I’ve styled my hair, but – I don’t naturally relate what is visually identifying about me to my actual and genuine identity.

In recent years, I have been prompted to wonder why this is. Cultural topical conversation as of late has focused a great deal on identity and its relationship to appearance in a number of avenues and had that not been the case, I may have never explored this umbrella of thought.

“Why don’t I equate my body to my identity?”

At first, I thought the answer was clear-cut. My mind completely encompasses who I am. It holds my emotions and my desires; it finds my ambitions and it learns and recognizes my values and beliefs. The things that consume my mind are what make up my identity, and as my mind changes, my identity evolves. My body is just the vessel that holds my soul, a tool and a resource I utilize to make the ideas ping-ponging in my mind tangible and real. My body is irrelevant to my identity.

Wait… My body is irrelevant to my identity? Then what drives me to obsess over my pimples? Why am I ashamed of my love handles and what reason do I have to care about what I consume? Why do I want to be thin and toned, and why do I put so much effort into coloring my eyelids and blacking my lashes? Why am I uncomfortable in public if my shirt isn’t flattering to my form and why do I feel the need to wash the mud off my skin after a day of playing in the sand? If my body is only a bridge between my imagination and my creations, then why do I wish to make it presentable? Why do I care whether plaid compliments polka-dots and why do I put the effort into placing sparkly bands around my fingers? Why did I battle so adamantly with my parents to get ink under my skin or bars through my earlobes? What drives me to care if my body is not me?

The easiest to untangle were the elements relating to my health. For tools to function properly and to be sustainable long-term, they need to be cared for. My desires for clear skin and a fit body probably stemmed from the appeal of the functionality of my tool. I will admit, I fail to eat well for long periods of time, but I always find myself later striving to change my habits. I get lazy and I neglect exercise for a while, but then I see someone using their body in ways I wish to use mine, and I become motivated to return to the gym. So, maybe…. Maybe I care about achieving and maintaining my health because I want my tool to continue to work. I want to explore my ideas in as many ways as I can and for as long as I can, so maybe I am working to assure I will continue to be able.

Still, somehow, describing my body as a tool for my mind doesn’t sit right with me. I like my body; despite the arguments I’ve presented to myself describing why and how I shouldn’t need to. I like decorating my body with images, colors, and glitter, and if my body is only a tool, then these things shouldn’t be a concern of mine.

So, I suppose I should explore the cosmetics of it. Is it conformity? Is it for external gratification? Well, that doesn’t make sense, because I don’t tend to follow trends and the things I choose to wear or to accessorize with, I choose because of how they speak to me even when I know they’re typically ill-received by the general public. If I were to wear, say, a turtleneck and a brown vest with some high waisted jeans and Ugg boots, I would be very uncomfortable. I wouldn’t feel like me, and if I ran into someone while wearing that outfit, I would feel every bit of desire to explain to them that it wasn’t truly me they were looking at.

Right now, I work at a job where my appearance doesn’t matter. I show up to work with hair that is brushed but not done, no make up on my face, and whatever combination of a hoodie and pants looked the most comfortable to me when I woke up that morning. There is no reason for me to care about my appearance while I am there, and I don’t have the desire to wake up earlier to get ready if it doesn’t matter. Lately, however, this has sort of been burdening me. More than ever, I have been scrolling through clothing that appeals to me online and yearning to put outfits together and try new things with my hair! I feel stuck in invisibility now as I change out the same mundane articles of clothing with each new day. Just the same as the turtleneck and Ugg boots, I feel like I’m not me.

I have come to realize that the reason I’m so drawn to make up and wardrobe and hair color and jewelry is because I like to use my body to represent myself. I like to decorate my body in a way that reflects my mind. I want the impression of my appearance to give an indication of my identity. I want a perfect stranger to be provided information on who I am just by taking me in at face value. I feel frustrated in old hoodies and uncomfortable in high waisted jeans because those things do not provide intel on my person. They are simply not a reflection of who I am. My mind is the novel, it carries every bit of information about me and if you spend enough time paying attention and listening, I will let you in on all those things. They say not to judge a book by its cover, but its cover is what intrigues you in the very beginning to pick up the book. I don’t want my body to just be the cover, though. I want it to be the compelling synopses you find on the back of the book. I like to wear 50’s style dresses with combat boots and studded belts, flowers tied into my hair that is filled with colorful extensions, bold make up with dark eyeliner and glittery eyelids, bracelets and rings and a thousand studs in my ears, storytelling permanent images under my skin my dad’s oversized jean jacket because that is my synopsis. I use cosmetics to describe my imagination and my wonder and my joys and my griefs because I hope it compels you to read the novel.

At the end of this deep dive of thought, I have realized that I still heavily relate my identity to my mind. My body is still not at the foreground when I consider who I am, but I have realized the role that it plays and the value that it has for me. I have realized how it compliments my mind, and therefore- my identity and I have come to understand that it is not one or the other that makes up who I am, it is how they work together to create my whole self. I don’t equate my body to my identity, but I know now that it still plays its role. My body is a tool for my mind, but the same can be said in vice versa. If I’m prompted with “Who Am I,” I would describe myself entirely by articulating my values, my ideas, and my imagination, but I would hope that I was asked because my synopsis prompted your intrigue.