The Trouble With Labels

On becoming a version of myself I never saw coming

I've spent the last few weekends dissecting the mass of downed trees in our yard into what can be chipped, what can be sawed into usable logs, and what gets composted or burned in the firepit. I'm working my way through each pile, bringing the yard back to its new, after-the-felling normal.

I hope we don't have to do this again anytime soon, I think to myself.

But it catches me.

Wait — where'd I go? When did this become my new normal?

Because the Michelle I used to be would never have believed any of this.

I was never a fan of loud machinery — leaf blowers included, which I'd wince at every time a neighbor fired one up on a Saturday morning back in the city. The idea of operating anything as loud, as capable of taking off a finger, as a chainsaw or a wood chipper? I'd have said no way, in no uncertain terms. Then we moved out to a few acres of oaks and maples, and I learned fast: without that equipment, I'd still be raking up leaves from last year (translation — lots of oaks and maples means lots of leaves, acorns, and helicopter seeds). But what I've found is that both can be true. I still flinch a little at the noise. But there's genuine enthusiasm alongside it now, because I've come to value what these machines make possible — the yard cleared, the wood stacked, the whole place tended to in a way it couldn't be otherwise.

I was never a truck person, either — I was a small-car girl, always dreaming of owning a sports car someday. Somewhere along the way a truck entered the picture instead, hauling and hitching, doing the unglamorous jobs a sports car could never begin to support. But what I've found is that both can be true. I still dream of a vintage Jaguar, or a Spyder, parked right alongside the truck in the driveway. Desire doesn't have to choose sides.

I was never a golfer, either — I was a rock climber, a solo cyclist, drawn to things that didn't come with a crowd. Golf felt like a sport for everybody else, and somewhere along the way, without ever saying so out loud, I decided it wasn't for me. Then we joined a neighborhood league. More than one friend responded with real disbelief when they heard. You golf?! Like I'd announced I was taking up competitive chess. But what I've found is that both can be true. I still love the solo stuff, the quiet self-reliance of it. And there's a real satisfaction in the game itself — the angle, the finesse, that small click when it comes together just right.

Golf felt like a sport for everybody else, and somewhere along the way, without ever saying so out loud, I decided it wasn't for me.

And I was never, under any circumstances, a suburbs person. I was a city person, full stop — that was load-bearing in how I understood myself. Then we moved out. Past the suburbs, really, to whatever counts as the x-burbs these days. But what I've found is that both can be true. I still crave the energy of a city block, the density of it, the sense of being in the middle of things. And I've also come to love the quiet out here — the space, the dark skies, the slower rhythm of a place with more trees than neighbors.

Maybe where'd I go was the wrong question all along. The better one: who am I now?

The answer might surprise you as much as it did me: I'm still me. Just more of it.

I'm still a gardener — it's just that my tools changed as my canvas got bigger. Now I need a chainsaw sometimes, alongside my trusty pruning shears. A chipper replaces my need to buy bags of mulch.

Most days I'm behind the wheel of a functional hybrid, dreaming of the sports car that might join the fleet one day — but it's nice to know a truck, and a tractor, are there when the need arises.

And I still have the same competitive eye for strategy and an angle, whether it's the face of a rocky climb, a swing on a golf course, or a shot on a pool table.

I didn't become someone else. I became more of who I already was.

Which makes me wonder if the labels were never really me at all. Small-car girl, solo climber, city person — those were just the shapes my values happened to take back then. What was actually true underneath — a tender of the earth, a lover of strategy and a good angle, someone who needs both solitude and connection — never changed. It just needed new experience to find new ways of showing up.

I thought I knew who I was. Turns out I just hadn't given myself enough room to find out how much more of her was waiting to show up.

Tonight, the hands that held a chainsaw a few hours ago are now cradling a glass of wine. Jazz plays softly somewhere inside the house, while outside, the crickets are nearly loud enough to drown it out. I don't know that I'd have guessed any of it could exist in the same evening, let alone the same version of me. But here it is. Both true. Both mine.

Twenty years from here, I couldn't begin to guess what else there'll be room for.

I wonder what's already true of you that you haven't quite let yourself see. Or what room you didn't know you were allowed to make.

Making room for more of yourself isn't something you do once. It's ongoing. 

If this is the kind of thing you like sitting with, my newsletter Practically Well  goes a layer deeper — it's where I keep working through these questions in real time, and it's the best way to know what's coming next in this little corner of Bettering Nature. Consider it a standing invitation to stay in the conversation.