I have been called many things in my life.
Some of those names were given with love.
Some with misunderstanding.
Some with judgment.
And some…
I carried far longer than I ever should have.
When I was a little girl, people often called me quiet. Shy. Sensitive. Awkward. The one who watched more than she spoke. The one who stayed near the edges of the room. The one who seemed to notice things other people missed.
I do not think anyone meant harm by those words. But children have a way of turning labels into identity. And somewhere along the way…
Quiet began to feel like invisible. Sensitive began to feel like weak. Different began to feel like wrong.
So I learned how to become smaller. Safer. Easier to understand. Easier to accept. Easier to love. Or at least…
That is what I believed.
Then life happened. Trauma happened. Silence happened. Abuse happened. And with those things came new names. Broken. Damaged. Complicated. Too emotional. Too intense. Too guarded. Too hard to love. And if I am being honest…
Some of the cruelest names I ever carried were never spoken by anyone else. They came from me. From the little girl who learned to carry shame that never belonged to her. From the young woman who kept trying to become whatever someone else needed, believing that if she could just get it right…
If she could just be prettier…
Kinder…
Softer…
Easier…
Less emotional…
Less ambitious…
Less herself…
Then maybe she would finally feel chosen. Wanted. Enough.
I have been called wife. And then divorcee. Survivor. Dreamer. Too much. Not enough. Leader. Emotional. Strong. Bossy. Passionate. Intimidating. And somewhere in the middle of becoming all of those things…
I discovered something no one really prepares women for:
The moment you stop shrinking…
The world often finds new names for you.
Too opinionated. Too ambitious. Too driven. Too outspoken. Too intense. Too much. I have felt that in relationships. In leadership. In meetings. In moments when I stopped apologizing for having standards. In moments when I chose to speak even when my voice shook. In moments when I decided I was no longer willing to abandon myself just to make other people comfortable.
The people who know me in one part of my life often seem surprised when they discover the others. The woman who can lead a meeting, solve a problem, and navigate hard conversations with quiet confidence…
Is the same woman who goes home, fills notebooks with forgotten words, cries at movies about dogs, and still believes there is magic in this world.
And maybe what unsettles some people is not that I am strong…
Maybe it is that I am strong without losing my softness.
That I can lead with conviction…
Speak with purpose…
Stand firm when it matters…
And still come home to old books, dogs curled at my feet, conversations with my husband that stretch late into the evening, and a heart that still refuses to stop believing in wonder.
Because somewhere along the way…
I realized something:
Softness is not weakness. Sensitivity is not fragility. Kindness is not surrender. And being quiet…
Does not mean I have nothing to say.
These days…
If I must answer to a name, let it be these:
Woman of faith.
Cycle breaker.
Truth teller.
Mentor.
Builder.
Poet.
Lover.
Leader.
Daughter.
Sister.
Wife.
Friend.
And maybe, most importantly…
Magic.
Because after everything this world has tried to call me…
That is still the name that feels most like home.
— Jennifer Rene Wallace
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