Quotes About Identity

You make the wrong choices, you make mistakes, you disappear for a decade, you marry the wrong man. You get hurt. You lose sight of who you are, or of who you want to be, and then you remember, and if you're lucky you have sisters or friends who remind you when you forget your best intentions. You come back to yourself, again and again. You try, and fail, and try again, and fail again. She

She wondered whether they would ever not try to have it all and do it all and do all of it flawlessly. Would the day ever come when simply doing your best would be enough?" Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, aunt, caretaker, career women: Mrs. Everything attempts to cover it all.

She just wants you to be able to be whoever you want to be, and love whoever you want to love.

She'd seen it happen to her friends, fellow PhD students, some who'd published their work. Put a ring on their finger and, through some dark magic, they turned into wives and mothers, and instead of talking about Elizabethan poetry or symbolism in Shakespeare's sonnets or how the market economy had shaped post–Civil War America, it was all teething and toilet training and which towns had the most desirable school districts.

You make the wrong choices, you make mistakes, you disappear for a decade, you marry the wrong man. You get hurt. You lose sight of who you are, or of who you want to be, and then you remember and if you're lucky you have sisters or friends who remind you when you forget your best intentions. You come back to yourself again and again. You try and fail and try again and fail again.

A body was just a body, just a vessel for her soul, and

Anger surged inside her, and Bethie tried to push it aside. I could have this, if I wanted it, she told herself. She could starve herself thin again, cut her hair, find a guy, buy a little house in a neighborhood full of identical little houses. She could have everything Barbara had, everything her sister had, only she didn't want it, not any of it.

You make the wrong choices, you make mistakes, you disappear for a decade, you marry the wrong man. You get hurt. You lose sight of who you are, or who you want to be, and then you remember, and if you're lucky you have sisters or friends who remind you when you forget your best intentions. You come back to yourself, again and again. You try, and fail, and try again, and fail again.

You make the wrong choices, you make mistakes, you disappear for a decade, you marry the wrong man. You get hurt. You lose sight of who you are, or of who you want to be, and then you remember, and if you're lucky you have sisters or friends who remind you when you forget your best intentions. You come back to yourself, again and again.

And what do you do all day?" her sister asked. Jo made herself smile. "I cook. I clean. I read. I write." "So you're basically Betty Crocker," Bethie said. "Betty Crocker with a library card.

A writer wasn't a body, just a byline. My words would be sharp and spiky, punchy and pointed; my stories would be swift and lean, sleek and enviable, moving fast and hitting hard. I would not, I vowed, write like a fat girl.

College didn't erase the differences between how everyone grew up, but it disguised those differences—

And I could see her for what she was... Someone who wasn't invincible.. Someone who had flaws, and things she wanted.

The trick of the Internet, I had learned, was not being unapologetically yourself or completely unfiltered; it was mastering the trick of appearing that way. It was spiking your posts with just the right amount of real… which meant, of course, that you were never being real at all.

husband, Dave, my daughter, and I had moved out of Cen- ter City and into a house in Haverford that I refused to call a McMansion, even though that's exactly what it was, but I loved Ellie's pediatrician so much that 1'd never even tried to find a suburban replacement.

She looked good in every shot, and not one of them had told the truth about the two of us, or about her, about who she was, or what she wanted, or who she'd been in love with. Not any more than my Instagram account told all of my truth, or Darshi's account, or Leela's.

Jennifer Weiner

It's just—in my opinion—the Internet is a place where people end up making themselves feel awful, or hurting other people. And everyone pretends." His throat jerked as he swallowed. "Everyone tries to put the best versions of themselves across. To fake it. And when they're not doing that, they're sitting behind their screens, passing judgment and feeling superior to whoever they think's being sexist or racist that day.

Jennifer Weiner

She is fifteen years old that summer, a thoughtful, book-struck girl with long-lashed hazel eyes and a long-legged body that still doesn't completely feel like her own.

I'm saying that it's a big decision. Your first love is important. It's part of your story The story you'll tell yourself, the one you'll tell about yourself, for the rest of your life.

And she's got blue hair, and old-lady clothes. It's fine. She's one hundred percent herself. And she wouldn't be that strong, she wouldn't have the courage of her convictions, if she didn't have a mom like you.

or maybe even back to my parents' place, away from all these beautiful people who, just by living, made me feel inadequate, at once enormous and small.

She'd learned that his wife's real name was not Daisy. It was Diana, and, somehow, that unsettled her almost as badly as finding the picture had. It made her think that she was the rough-draft Diana, the one who got crumpled up and tossed in the trash, while his wife was the final version, the one who was beloved, cherished, marriage material.