“I thought you were…”

Let me start by saying that my mom is a saint.

I know everyone thinks they have the best mom, but I truly have the best mom. Even my friends say that my mom is a saint. With that disclaimer in place, this post is about the worst thing my mom has ever said to me.

“I thought you were my sweet one.”

I don’t remember what I said or did that prompted it, but I remember those words. And she didn’t say them with malice or venom. If anything, it was probably said a little tongue-in-cheek. But I felt a bit of truth behind it.

And it devastated me.

You see, I have two brothers—one older and one younger—and although we were all unique with complicated personalities, we sometimes got reduced to simple family stereotypes. My older brother was the smart one. My younger brother was the confident one. And I was the nice one.

So when my mom suggested that I might no longer be the nice one, it felt like I had lost my identity.

Okay, that’s a little melodramatic. But it did make me question who I was supposed to be—and what other people saw when they looked at me.

Over the years, I’ve read a lot of books (brag) about habits. One idea that shows up over and over is that identity matters more than routines. I don’t run every day simply because I’ve done it so many times that it’s become automatic. I run every day because I consider myself a runner.

And runners run.

There’s another piece of this concept that I know less about—and it might even be unhealthy—but it motivates me even more. Sometimes what pushes me to run isn’t how I see myself, but how I believe others see me.

On the days when I don’t feel like running, I still go out the door because other people think of me as a runner.

When I stop and think about that, it’s a little strange.

It makes absolutely no difference to anyone else whether I run or not. Most people who know me wouldn’t even notice if I stopped. But the idea that someone might discover that I no longer run—and therefore might no longer think of me as a runner—is enough to get me out the door.

It’s similar to the idea I wrote about in my I Can’t Let People Down post, except this one is more internal.

Which brings me back to my mom’s comment.

If my mom no longer saw me as the sweet one, then maybe no one saw me as the sweet one. And if no one saw me that way, maybe I wouldn’t see myself that way either.

And if I didn’t see myself as the sweet one, maybe I would stop doing the things the sweet one does.

I’m not entirely sure there’s a point to this post.

Maybe it’s about understanding what actually drives our behavior.

Or maybe it’s just a reminder that the words we say—especially the casual, offhand ones—can stick with someone longer than we ever intended.

P.S. About twenty years ago my mom moved to be close to me. Not to Texas to live near my older brother. Not to Boston to live near my younger brother.

So maybe…

I’m still the sweet one.