4 Ways to Know Your Identity Is Anchored Outside of You

“I became really good at reading a room. But I was terrible at reading myself.” 

I would be the first person to tell you that I struggled with self-worth for years. But back then, I didn’t have the language for identity. Most of the time, I called it low self-esteem. Sometimes I jokingly called myself a girl with “daddy issues”. I knew something was missing; I just didn’t understand what it was. 

Growing up in Cameroon, I watched my siblings repeatedly punished for not meeting my father’s expectations. Witnessing that created a survival rule inside me: 

I have to be better. Behave better. Perform better. Make fewer mistakes. Maybe if I could be good enough, I could stay safe. 

That rule followed me into adulthood. Whenever I sensed disapproval—or even anticipated it—I immediately began reshaping myself. The quieter one. The agreeable one. The one who didn’t cause problems. I became really good at reading a room. But I was terrible at reading myself. 

Looking back, I can see four major ways my identity had become anchored outside of me. 

“The day you look in the mirror and no longer recognize the person looking back, ask yourself where along the way you abandoned pieces of who you were.”

1. Your opinion of yourself changes with other people’s approval. 

When your identity lives outside of you, other people become mirrors. Their approval tells you, You’re okay. Their disappointment whispers, Something is wrong with you. 

I learned to study people like an assignment: What makes you happy with me? What version of me gets accepted here? Then I would become that version. 

The danger of becoming who everyone else needs is that you eventually lose contact with the person underneath. You stop asking, Who am I? and start asking, Who do I need to be so you won’t leave?

2. You measure your worth by what you can accomplish or endure. 

Achievement was just another way of asking for love. 

No one who knew me growing up would have ever predicted that I would join the military—especially not in a different country. When people in the Air Force asked for my "why," I gave the flat, acceptable answer: better opportunities, a steady paycheck, and education benefits. Those benefits were real, but underneath, my true "why" was different. The military fit the exact mold I had been programmed for. It was the "hard version of hard" that I thought I needed. Subconsciously, I believed: If I can endure this, I can do anything. If I push myself to the point of breaking, it will prove that I am acceptable.

Whether through degrees, military rank, or career success, I wasn't just growing. I was building a courtroom case for my own worthiness. Look at everything I’ve done—surely this means I am valuable?

3. You betray yourself to preserve your place in someone else’s life. 

This one often wears noble masks: Being flexible. Keeping the peace. Being a good daughter, a good employee, or a good partner. Sometimes those traits are beautiful, but often, underneath them lives self-abandonment. 

Growing up in a traditional culture, preserving belonging often demanded quiet compliance. I stayed silent when things hurt. I crossed my own boundaries. I convinced myself things were fine when they weren't—because somewhere inside, losing another person felt far worse than losing myself. 

We abandon ourselves little by little so someone else will stay, until we wake up and no longer recognize the person in the mirror. 

4. When something leaves, it feels like you are dying. 

Without someone needing me, who am I?

Without this title, who am I?

Without these things, am I nothing?

When you attach your identity to a role, losing that role feels like an existential collapse. A relationship would end, or a season would shift, and I felt as though my heart had been pulled from my chest. We do this with careers, titles, relationships, military service, motherhood, and ministry. We attach who we are to what we do. 

If everything you normally use to explain yourself were stripped away right now, you would still be breathing. You would still be here. So, who is the person who remains? 

For me, answering that question meant confronting an even deeper one: If my worth could no longer come from what I achieved, endured, or overcame—where would it come from?

Coming Home to Daughtership 

The work of identity isn’t about striving to become someone new. It is about discovering who was there before you learned to perform, earn love, or push yourself to the breaking point to prove your worth. For years, I looked for answers through effort.

Daughtership in Christ speaks an entirely different language. It says:

You are loved just as you are. No additions, no subtractions—simply loved.

Three years ago, when I ran to the church to get baptized, that was the truth I received. For the first time, I felt seen, loved, and tenderly held. I didn't have to prove anything. I didn't have to perform. 

Reflection

So, who are you when no one is applauding? Who are you without the title or the armor? 

When you stop trying to earn your place in the room, you realize you were already invited in. And that is where coming home begins. 

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