An Awakening Like No Other

I’ll never forget the moment I opened my eyes in the ICU, the first time I was in the ICU. I was 16 years old and the last thing I remembered was being sick. Vague memories surfaced: my mom driving me to the hospital emergency room, a female doctor asking me about female things (a first for me), and above it all, a constant sharp pain in my shoulder. Then I woke up in a room with glass walls. Dad stood by the window looking into a pitch-black night. 

I tried to turn toward him. That’s when everything changed. Pain. Everywhere. A nurse came in and checked the surgical dressing running the full length of my abdomen. "What’s that?" I asked. She explained the wrapping was covering my surgical wound. "My what?!"

My parents lovingly and gently explained that I had been losing blood and the doctors had decided to find where the internal bleeding was coming from. They opened me up like a fish, filleted and splayed. They removed the source of the bleeding and saved my life. That was three days ago.

I knew I should be happy to be alive. Instead, I felt lost. The last thing I remembered was being sick. But I wasn’t sick, as I had thought. I was dying!

Now, I was alive but changed. I would forever bear a large ugly scar. I felt just as ugly.

The teenage years are a season of finding your identity. Who am I? Where do I fit in? We all need to discover the answers to these questions. For me, at sixteen, I had already found my identity in Christ—in a basic way. I knew I loved Jesus and his Word. But that love was only beginning to shape my thinking. I had yet to learn how much Jesus loved me.

A near-death, body-disfiguring experience sent me into my first identity crisis. My parents had not allowed me to wear a bikini and, in truth, I didn’t think I was pretty enough to wear clothes that might reveal a little skin. But I liked to dream of a day when I would bravely walk across a sandy beach in a two-piece swimsuit. All that changed in a blink of an eye. Now, when I looked at my belly, with the new scar snaking its way around my belly button, new questions emerged. Whose body is this?—I don’t recognize it. Who am I if I can no longer imagine a bikini-clad future? Would anyone think my body is beautiful? Would I ever find romantic love with such an ugly scar? That scar brought to light the frailty of my understanding of Christ's love and my identity in it.

QUESTIONS IN AN IDENTITY CRISIS

Looking back, my first identity crisis was a struggle to understand my value apart from my physical appearance. It wouldn’t be the last time I questioned my worth. Later identity crises would focus on my physical ability, my mental capacity, and my role as wife and mother.  

With every major medical crisis, I’ve had an identity crisis. Each time, the same question returns: Who am I now? 

• Who am I now if I can’t toss my baby in the air like other mothers?

• Who am I now if I can no longer hike with my family?

• Who am I now if I can no longer vacation at my favorite alpine lake?

My spinal cord injury, the latest medical crisis in a stream of crises, created a new slew of questions. In an instant, I could no longer do the most basic things for myself. I couldn’t feed myself, move myself, or use the bathroom by myself. Navigating life in a wheelchair meant I couldn’t access anything upstairs. Using my arms for mobility was exhausting. My stamina was near zero, all day, every day. I was dependent on others for almost everything. I had to learn new ways to do almost everything. It felt like being a grown toddler, learning to walk by falling down and getting up again. Over and over.  (It still feels that way.) Of course, new "Who am I?" questions arose. How could they not?

• Whose blue “disabled person” placard is hanging in my car window? Who am I if that placard is for me?

• Who am I if I can’t walk?

• Who am I if I can’t kick a ball with my kids? If I can’t dance with my husband in the kitchen?

• Who am I if I can no longer work?

The questions may have changed but the answer is the same. I am a beloved child of God. Of course, that answer rested quickly in my mind but it took time to settle in my heart. By grace, and through suffering, God has helped me comprehend his unfailing love.  

5 TRUTHS TO TELL YOURSELF IN AN IDENTITY CRISIS

If I could speak with my 16-year-old self, I would tell her a few things I’ve learned through multiple identity crises.

1. Grieve your loss. Girl, cry your tears. It’s important to grieve what used to be "normal" and what you assumed your future would hold that it no longer can. Those are losses that must be acknowledged and felt. But don’t hold them in. Take them to Jesus so he can assure you of his steadfast love. He, too, lost beloved things. His obedience to the cross cost him greatly. He was separated from his father whom he loved above all. He died knowing he would no longer be able to care for his mother. He left work unfinished. No one else may be able to fully understand your grief and the confusion that comes with your loss, but Jesus can. 

2. Have confidence in your standing. More importantly, Dear One, understand that your losses do not define you. You are not the sum of your losses. They may send you into an identity crisis, questioning Who am I? but they cannot threaten your standing as a daughter of God. Remember this promise: "But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God" (John 1:12 ESV).

3. Trust God’s evaluation of your worth. You are your worst fan right now. Trust me when I say you are not the one to evaluate how much you are worth. I know you are feeling unlovable right now, but you are flat-out wrong. This identity crisis is an opportunity to deepen your understanding of your worth and God’s faithfulness. God calls you "my beloved" (Rom 9:24 ESV). Lean into the struggle. He’s got you. With every Who am I? you ask, God answers, You are mine.

• Who am I if I can’t toss my baby in the air? You are mine. You are the one I chose to be his mother. Love him well.

• Who am I if I can’t walk, drive, or kick a ball? You are mine. You are the one I chose to befriend/parent/encourage from the couch. Listen well.

• Who am I if I can’t work? You are mine. You are the one I’ve chosen to lift my name high. Do it well.

• Who am I? You are my child and I love you.

4. You are the same you. Your undiagnosed illness, and all the risks that come with it, does not change who you are. They can take away another organ and you’ll still be you. Your spinal cord injury, and the limits that come with it, does not change who you are. You look different, that’s for sure. (That leg brace would make a handy soccer shin guard.) Your day-to-day life is different. (Sleepy? Comes with the new territory.) You’ll get things done differently. But you are still you—the same person God has been shaping for decades to become more like Christ. 

The day God adopted you, your identity changed permanently. Suffering changes us. It will continue to change your appearance, refine your thinking, and reorder your priorities. But these are just methods, tools God is using to shape you into the person he has planned for you to be. There is no going back to life before being adopted by God. Your identity as a beloved child of God is tattooed in indelible ink, etched in the palm of his hand (Isaiah 49:16). His “you are mine” is forever, kid.

You like biology so let me give you an analogy. A caterpillar is nothing like a butterfly, or so it seems at first. The difference in appearance is remarkable. First a creature bound to the earth, then a winged insect alight. The change takes place in a chrysalis, unseen but undeniable. They appear as two different creations, but that is an illusion. They are the same. They share the same DNA. The caterpillar will always become the butterfly. 

Your spiritual DNA as God’s child is the same. Your body will change. Life will leave scars, physical and emotional, but children of God need never worry that their status will change. Children of God are treasured offspring, permanently grafted into his genealogy.

5. Live out of your identity, not out of fear. You are a child of light. "For at one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light" (Eph 5:8 ESV). You will become who Christ meant for you to be, whether here on earth or in Heaven. This body that is failing you cannot stop that beautiful process. It’s just here for you to use for a time. A vessel. Part of you, but not all of you.

You are of infinite worth, more precious to God than all the gems and sparkly jewels. Why? Not because of what you can or cannot do (let that sink in), but because you are his. He loves you and he’ll never stop. "I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have continued my faithfulness to you" (Jeremiah 31:3 ESV).

NAVIGATING AN IDENTITY CRISIS AFTER MEDICAL TRAUMA

The only way I know how to navigate an identity crisis after a medical trauma is to lean into Jesus, focusing on his character more than on my body. 

When pain is clamoring for attention, remember Jesus suffered too. He understands and he’s with you. 

When you are tempted to equate your loss of ability with a loss of worth, remember that God has already declared you priceless. "The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him" (Romans 8:16-17 ESV). Can you imagine anything better than being co-heirs with Christ, the Prince of Peace, the Son of God? 

When you no longer recognize the person in the mirror, remember your identity in Christ does not change. It is permanent. If you need to, grab a permanent marker and write God’s name on your hand—He’s got your name etched on his. He’ll never forget you.

You, Dear One, are loved more than you can imagine. Believe it.

I love sending my subscribers special goodies and encouragement straight to their inbox. One of those goodies is a list of 12 Verses to Help You Endure. I’d love to send it to you.