The Great Identity Crisis
At 16, I had my first real identity crisis—at least that I’ll admit to. I can look back now and tell you that I was dealing with the effects of early childhood trauma.
I was adopted when I was 6 years old, taken away from my first 'home,' and thrown into the foster care system at 4. I spent many years confused, angry, and scared about what people would think and how I would be viewed. It was a deeply ingrained insecurity stemming from the abandonment I had experienced in the first few essential years of development.
By 17, it hit me hard. I needed to figure out who I was. The end of high school was approaching. I wasn’t really there to learn. I was struggling behind closed doors.
Everything on the exterior looked good. I’m funny, I’m not awful looking, and I’m pretty alright at sports. Meanwhile, my interior was destroyed. I was holding onto a dark secret—a 'dark passenger.' Unfortunately, this was all during my early age of rebellion, and the volcano began to erupt around the start of my junior year in high school.
During this time, I was just starting to receive help from therapists and psychiatrists, running to weekly counseling visits between football practices, trying to grab hold of what was happening.
My adoptive parents were always good about trying to get me help, and I was willing to—at first. Life was manageable. Scary, upsetting, and full of hurt, but manageable. Until those Friday night lights.
That’s when I could unleash that pain underneath the pads of a contact sport.
As senior year approached, everyone knew that 18 was supposed to be 'liberating and free.' For me, it didn’t feel that way. Eighteen was around the time I needed to have things figured out. What are my next steps? How am I going to make these parents who took me out of a bad situation proud that they did? How am I going to continue to hide the fact that I am not like everyone else?
I was drowning behind closed doors. I come from a small town where everyone knows everyone, and most families look alike. I didn’t know anyone in my situation. We were young—no one was having deep conversations about pain like that.
Eighteen also scared the shit out of me. Senior night was approaching, and I was captain of the team. 'All eyes on me,' or so it felt.
My biggest fear was coming to light: everyone’s going to realize my family does not look the same. I come from a rougher place than the suburb I was lucky enough to be a part of and show off. The anxiety of that overshadowed a lot of normal things that year.
You have to understand—it was tough enough even bringing someone to my parents’ front door (when they were home) because I didn’t want people to know my situation, one I was, at the time, ashamed of.
Senior night finally comes along—it’s time to face the music. I was in an absolute panic. What are people going to think? My parents are white, and I’m Black—or whatever 'friends' decided my color was that day.
My whole life, my perception of myself was misconstrued and broken because of the neglect and trauma I received before these wonderful, 'total opposite view of me' people saved me.
You know who else saved me? Dylan. Picture this: it was Senior Night. Of course Dylan was the QB of the team—that’s just how every story goes. He was a true selfless leader. As I was walking out to the field with my parents for the first time, my heart was pounding so hard I could barely swallow or talk. We made eye contact. At that moment’s glance, he followed as I dragged him to take a photo with my family in front of the crowd. I was an anxious mess.
I know he was probably confused, but like a brother and life’s captain, he took the reins and followed along. We took that photo, and we became family. Dylan, I know I’ve told you before, but you changed my life that night. I didn’t go home and inflict pain on myself for being different, looking different, or feeling different.
Dylan later told me I was 'really great to him as a young kid in high school.' He said I always made him feel confident, even though he was scared on the inside, and that he appreciated me.
Wel,l I’m here to say: no, I appreciate you, Dylan. Thank you for the confidence. I hope what you say I did for you gave you the strength to be true to yourself forever, because when I was faking it on the big stage, you were true to me.
I hope it opened doors for hard conversations among you and your family or your friends. I hope you never stop showing people the character you have within, because it’s enough to change a life. It was enough to change my life, and 12 years later, I’m still here, able to tell this story. I love you, man. Because of you, that night, I just held on.
Till next week.