Us 4-S’more - What does identity and belonging mean to you?
Sticky questions, personal answers:
The Religious Trauma Network’s team mashup.
What does identity and belonging mean to you?
Rebekah Drumsta
As a good Independent Fundamental Baptist girl, I learned that my identity was in Christ alone. This meant that I had to see myself as God saw me and nothing else mattered. I was chosen, set apart, forgiven and loved by God. The problem with this was that I was also taught God saw me as a sinner who was broken, had a dirty heart that could not be trusted and could do nothing good or right on my own. The cognitive dissonance with the two messages was astounding. My identity was in Christ, of Christ, from Christ and He thought I was filthy, incapable and untrustworthy.
I never met the true Rebekah until after many years of therapy, putting my family through a whole color palette selection of versions of myself and gallons of tears.
It took much learning, making myself get out of my comfort zone, friends I admired believing in me (once even physically pushing me forward so I would speak my thoughts publicly) and much trial and error before I began to see who I really was, what I was capable of, what I liked and what I was good at.
You see, I didn’t have an identity outside of Christian, wife and mom because I didn’t know myself. I thought my title was my identity. I had to belong in my own skin before I believed others could accept me for who I was, no matter my size, mood or emotional state.
Identity is one of those things that, for many, changes as life progresses. It’s our sense of self - how we view our worth, expressions, meaning, value and purpose. Each person has key factors they see as defining - family, country or culture of origin, education, accomplishments, personality, sexuality and lived or trauma experiences, to name a few.
My formative years told me who I was and who I was going to be - I was given my identity and expected to mold into it. If I measured up to these standards, I was accepted. Challenge these normatives or prescribed choices and there would be consequences. After deconstructing my faith and worldview while learning about mental and emotional health, discovering how other people think and believe, seeking for truth in places previously off limits due to not meeting exacting theological standards, and embracing freedom of thought and choice - I began to form my own, custom identity.
I belonged because I existed, not because I followed the rules. I was me, and that was enough.
Janyne McConnaughey
Religion became my entire identity—and the difficulty I had in figuring out who I was when I entered therapy was overwhelming. Those were very lonely days, weeks, and years as I realized I could no longer accept much of what I was taught or who I had become for the sake of belonging and support. Since my early development was impacted by both trauma and neurodivergence, I became a chameleon who could be anything anyone needed me to be. Without the church, I had no idea who I was. While the church is uniquely designed to meet the need for community, the impact of trauma can cause the need to belong to be complicated and painful. Survivors are more likely to accept who they are told to be without searching to understand who they were born to be. It has been necessary to expand my social and spiritual connections to break free from the constraints that kept me trapped in a place where I couldn’t define myself without consulting others. This has been particularly true as a woman leader. There has been remarkable freedom in realizing that I was born with a distinct identity, and though influenced by my experiences—both positive and damaging—I can understand myself, both my talents and limitations, and live a fulfilling life that can embrace but not be controlled by my faith.
Luke Renner
When the question “Who are you and how do you belong?” is put to me, I’ve been somewhat curious to discover that my knee-jerk reaction, at almost 50 years of age, is to land somewhere between freezing up and wanting to hide. Even in a professional sense, when people have asked me to write a bio about myself, I lock up. My deepest feeling is to turn around and run in the opposite direction.
I suspect there’s a psychotherapist out there who’s sitting up and pointing at this like that Leonardo DiCaprio meme where he’s pointing at the TV, but so what. Even I do that. I’m well aware of what makes me weird, but I resist and defy anyone who longs to label me according to my quirks. Nothing about me is cemented. If anything, I’m the motor oil rainbow on top of the cement.
Admittedly, when I feel the resistance to questions about identity and belonging, my initial instinct is to think that something is wrong with me. I’ve been fortunate to live a life filled with an array of experiences. I’ve been lots of places. I’ve encountered lots of people and cultures and ideas and questions. Surely, if someone was going to be capable of answering these seemingly fundamental questions, it ought to be me.
And yet, I cannot.
Unfortunately, it seems we live in a time and culture that expects a healthy and well-balanced person to eventually have a good answer to those core questions. A polished sense of identity and belonging.
But I do not.
This leaves me with a few options when the questions are asked:
I can lie and try to make something up.
I can feed my data into an AI synthesizer and ask it what it thinks, based on the many outputs that make up my digital footprint.
or
I can be honest.
Today, I am choosing honesty.
As tempting as it is to have a deep and inspiring response to questions about identity or belonging, I would have to say that my most honest answer about who I am and how I belong is to say that, at this point in my life, I don’t know who I am or how I belong. Also true, is that I legitimately prefer it that way. It doesn’t panic me. I find actual comfort in not knowing or needing to know. It’s a quiet kind of confidence.
I’m not scrambling to find an identity to please others or to reassure myself. I’m not convinced that life is a riddle to be solved or a role to be played. I don’t see myself on a path or a journey that I need to complete or finish well.
I simply exist, nestled and emerging within the mystery, like a bubble in a tar pit or a moth dancing in the light of a projector.
I’m tired of being watched and measured. Tired of being quantified and classified. Tired of being assigned to the proper list. I’ve never liked it when others did this to me, and I’m delighted to finally say I’m not doing it to myself anymore either.
Certainly, I have things like “filmmaker” or “writer” or “advocate” on my online profiles. And, yes, I do have a professional bio or two floating around out there. But I’m finding that the things I am known to “do” and who or what I truly “am” are not necessarily married. They never have been.
I am a process, not a thing. Ever changing. Regularly conflicted. Never settled.
I belong because I exist, whether anyone, including me, likes it or not.
And that about sums me up.
David Ruybalid
I’m still in the process of discovering my identity. For much of my life, I didn’t realize how much of it had been shaped by the environment I was raised in. I grew up in a devout Christian home, surrounded by strong family systems—especially on my dad’s side—that placed a high value on morality, loyalty, and reputation. Much of what was expected of me was communicated not just through words, but through unspoken norms that shaped everything from belief to behavior.
It wasn’t until years of therapy that I began to understand how deeply these unspoken expectations were tied to a system of shame. In that realization, I had to start asking: What do I believe? What choices are right for me? At first, this felt like rebellion. But I’ve learned that when I act as if these systems still have power over me—when I react to them—I inadvertently give them that power. True freedom has come not by rebelling, but by thoughtfully choosing what aligns with my values. When I do that, I’m not reacting—I’m simply living.
One moment that crystallized this shift for me came when I was asked to lead my great-aunt’s celebration of life service, about four years ago. After the service, while the rest of the family gathered for refreshments and a family photo, a homeless woman carrying a baby entered the church needing help. It was over 100 degrees outside. I went downstairs to find my brother-in-law, a therapist in that city, hoping he could help. A family member scolded me for stepping away—frustrated that I was going to miss a moment when they were trying to take a family photo. I needed to leave to help a woman and her baby, but at that moment, I felt like a shamed child all over again.
But here’s what stood out: my family, who had long claimed “Christian” as a core identity, seemed more concerned with maintaining appearances than helping someone in crisis. That disconnect was eye-opening. I realized that identity—true identity—isn’t found in labels or inherited expectations. It’s in what we choose when those values are tested.
For me, identity is no longer about proving I belong or reacting against the systems I was raised in. It’s about aligning my life with what I truly value, even when that means disappointing the expectations of others.
Visit the Religious Trauma Network Resource Page or our personal bios for additional support or resources.
This article is not intended to treat or diagnose any condition. The authors are not licensed therapists or clinicians. Any advice or opinions given on this site are strictly individual observation and insights based on personal experiences and study. It should in no way take the place of professional assistance.