Labels We Collected in Life

Labels Reality

We collect labels like vintage postcards—some handed to us, some self-written, some left behind by old dreams. Some fade, their edges curling. Others still burn bright. But do they fit anymore?

Over the years, I’ve worn more labels than I can count. Some arrived as whispers. Others I pinned on proudly, medals catching the sun. Letting go of mother, boss, wife, healer feels like a tiny death, and a wild rebirth.

Lately, I’ve picked up new ones: digital nomad, expat, late-blooming artist, boss, control freak, softie, vintage collector. (That last one still makes me laugh.)

Labels cling like stitched name tags. Some offered in love, others pressed on through expectation. They shape how the world greets us—and how we greet the mirror. Some liberate, and some confine us.

I’ve been asking: Which still sings true? Which belong to versions of me I’ve already outgrown?

What labels have you carried? Which will you keep, rewrite, or leave behind?

Our story isn’t a name tag—it’s a living memoir. The pen is in our hands. Right?