Quotes About Identity

Work is a substitute religious experience for many workaholics.

If God is male, then male is God.

God illuminated something powerful in that moment. One e-mail represented my family of origin - a family bent toward hiding. And my new family, the one I'd forged from the ashes of my past, desperate for Jesus to help me, represents who I am today. I am loved. I am surrounded by children and a husband who cheer for me.

I am convinced that living in an enclave shapes the personality, and living alone shapes the personality too.

Looking like a straight girl] means wearing clothes that seek and destroy comfort. These are garments designed by gay men to attract heterosexual men. The straight girl is simply the hanger for an inside joke.

And I'm clueless as to why Southern lesbians are always growing up queer-gorgeous-and-damned-funny, except that maybe things are a lot different in the South.

We cannot let the haters of this world define us. Or frighten us into no longer being ourselves.

Because the culture we breathe and work in rushes against rest. It equates our worth with production and wealth and fame. The more we work toward those goals, the more society assigns us worth.

When we think of other people as our center and fulfillment, we live frustrated lives.

Pieces. A bit for someone here. A bit there. And sometimes they don't add up to anything whole. But you are so busy dancing. Delivering. You don't have time to notice. Or are afraid to notice. And then one day you have to look. And it's true. All of your pieces fill up other people's holes. But they don't fill your own.

He consumed me in a different way- the way his eyes made everything jump inside of me when I looked into them, his laughter, temper, the way he sometimes struggled for words, the way his jaw twitched when he was angry, the thoughtful way he listened to me, his incredible restraint and resolve in the face of overwhelming odds. When I looked at him, I saw the easygoing farmer he could have been, but I also saw the soldier and prince that he was.

Who was this girl who thumbed her nose at two kingdoms and did as she pleased?

I decide that sometimes definitions are wrong. Even if they're written in a dictionary. Identities aren't always separate and distinct. Sometimes they ARE wrapped up with others. Sometimes, for a few minutes, maybe they can even be shared. And if I am ever fortunate enough to return to Mr. Bender's garden, I wonder if the birds will see that piece of him that is wrapped up in me.

Maybe now it was I who would become the assassin.

What I think is all I have left. My mind is the only thing that makes me different from a fancy toaster. What we think does matter-it's all we truly have.

Are the details of our lives who we are, or is it owning those details that makes the difference?

Percentages! Those are for economists, polls, and politicians. Percentages can't define your identity.

I used to be someone. Someone named Jenna Fox. That's what they tell me. But I am more than a name. More than they tell me. More than the facts and statistics they fill me with. More than the video clips they make me watch. More . But I'm not sure what.

Ragged clothes?" He grabbed my hand and examined it. "Chipped nails? Those aren't enough to disguise what's inside. You'll always be you, Lia. You can't run from that.

I used to be someone.

Choice I needed it like I needed air. Bit no one could hear me. No one could listen. No words. No sound. No voice. I couldn't even dream myself away. Choices were made. None of them mine. At first I wondered if it was hell. And then I knew it was.

But I am more than a name. More than they tell me

Things I can feel. Hard. Soft. Rough. Smooth. But the inside kind of feel, it is all the same, like foggy mush. Is that the part of me that is still asleep? (9)

I wondered if she was truly Rahtan. Yes, she was skilled, but she didn't exactly possess brawn—even if she had managed to overtake me and slam me up against the wall. But juggling? Riddles? Her age. Her poise and demeanor was that of a cynical tested soldier, but her appearance—she was young, younger than me, I was certain. Her black hair fell in thick, long waves, and her hands were delicate, her fingers more suited for a piano than a sword.