Not a Statue, a Sandcastle

For the woman who wonders why she still doesn’t know who she is

There’s a kind of shame that bubbles up when you feel like you should know who you are… and you don’t.

But over time, I’ve learned that when a woman says, “I don’t know who I am,” what she often means is something else entirely. And it’s worth getting curious about.

What do you believe it means to “know who you are”?
Where did that belief come from?
And what if it’s rooted in a definition that was never quite right to begin with?

I’ve come to notice that this confusion about identity often arises from a quiet, unspoken conflation of two things:

• Presentation — how I show myself to the world

• Engagement — the things I do that I enjoy or that others value

In other words, “knowing who I am” often gets boiled down to this:

“I believe I should be confident in how I present myself to others. I should know how to project a particular kind of image—ideally, one that others will admire. Also, I should have a handful of clear, engaging hobbies or talents that I’m good at.”

Let’s unpack both.

1. “I know what my personal brand is.”
At the heart of this is usually a social fear: I don’t know how to fit in. No matter how old we are, we’re still standing on the playground at recess, hoping someone will invite us to sit with them.

We live in a culture of consumption—and we have learned to view ourselves like products.
We pitch our personalities in bite-sized Instagram captions.
We treat our lives like they need to be branded—recognizable, polished, sellable.

But you are not a brand.
You are not a product.
You don’t need to be easy to understand or quick to consume.

You are allowed to be layered, contradictory, a little unsure.
You are allowed to grow slowly and change your mind and not fit inside a tidy box.

The women I admire most are the ones who refuse to reduce themselves to a persona.
They are fluid. They are real.

2. “I need to know exactly what I enjoy and what I’m good at.”
This is a meaningful part of identity—but it’s also wildly misunderstood. We expect to stumble upon passion like it’s already waiting for us, perfectly formed.

But most of the things we love were once awkward first attempts.

Screens give us effortless dopamine.
But true interests require boredom. Frustration. Effort.
If you discover that you enjoy photography, you have to be willing to move through the learning curve—through the manuals, the lighting failures, the uninspiring days.
Otherwise, you’ll keep jumping from hobby to hobby, always chasing spark and never building stamina.

And in doing so, you don’t just miss out on skills—you miss out on the opportunity to grow patience, tenacity, and grit.
Engagement isn’t just about pleasure.
It’s about persistence.

So when you say, “I don’t know who I am,” maybe what you’re really feeling is:

“I don’t know how to market myself right now.”
“I don’t know what I'm supposed to be good at yet.”
“I feel like I’m not enough unless I come with a ready- made label and list of accomplishments.”

And if that’s true, let’s rewrite the narrative.

You are not a statue.
You are not finished marble.
You are not a brand or a tagline or a personal elevator pitch.

You are a sandcastle.

Your shape will shift.
Your edges will soften and reform.
The tide will reshape you again and again.

But your substance—that ancient, essential sand—is always good.

In Internal Family Systems, we call that the Self. The core of who you are is already there. It is calm. It is curious. It is courageous, creative, clear, connected, confident, and compassionate.

Those qualities aren’t built through branding or perfection.
They emerge through practice. Through showing up. Through not rushing your transitions.

Let your shape shift.
Let the tide come in.
The important things will hold.