I was watching Will & Harper when something unexpected happened.
I wasn’t thinking about gender identity.
I wasn’t thinking about politics.
I wasn’t even thinking much about Harper.
I was thinking about my breasts.
Years ago, I had a breast reduction.
I remember standing in front of a mirror afterward and seeing my body for the first time.
What I felt wasn’t excitement.
It wasn’t vanity.
It was relief.
I didn’t feel like I hated looking in the mirror anymore.
When Harper talked about making changes that helped her feel more at home in her body, I recognized that feeling immediately.
Not because our stories were the same.
Because relief is a universal language.
As the documentary continued, I found myself moved by the friendship between Will and Harper.
Not because they always understood each other.
Because they stayed curious.
They kept choosing relationship over assumptions.
And that’s when something clicked.
For years, I’ve noticed a small irritation arise when people introduced themselves with a list of labels.
On dating apps.
In writing groups.
In professional settings.
I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.
The funny thing is that I’ve had transgender people in my life, and I’ve always tried to treat them with respect.
I’ve had a transgender neighbor.
I’ve had friends and family members with transgender loved ones.
Years ago, a child I cared about asked me to use a new name and different pronouns. I did my best.
So whatever was bothering me wasn’t really about pronouns.
It was something else.
I think it was labels.
I’ve accumulated quite a collection over the years.
Alcoholic.
ADHD.
Anxious.
Depressed.
Codependent.
Highly Sensitive.
Complex PTSD.
Fearful avoidant.
Mentally ill.
Bipolar.
Some of those labels have helped me understand myself.
Some have helped me find support.
Some never felt quite right.
But nearly all of them have hurt when they arrived before a relationship.
Years ago, I found an old photograph of myself from the first year of my second marriage.
My eyes were swollen from crying.
I looked exhausted.
Heartbroken.
Lost.
At the time, I was trying desperately to make a marriage work. I spent years believing that if I could just love harder, try harder, sacrifice more, explain myself better, or become easier to live with, things would improve.
Instead, I became increasingly unhappy.
Later, people would describe me with a label.
Bipolar.
What’s interesting is that when I look at that photograph now, that isn’t the question that comes to mind.
I don’t wonder what diagnosis fits.
I wonder what happened to her.
I wonder why she cried all night.
I wonder why she felt so alone.
I wonder why she was working so hard to earn love that never seemed to arrive.
A label asks:
“What is she?”
A story asks:
“What has she been through?”
Those are very different questions.
The older I get, the more I think labels are useful—but limited.
They can point toward something true.
They can help us find language, understanding, treatment, community, and support.
But they can never tell the whole truth.
The truth is that I am not my sobriety.
I am not my ADHD.
I am not my sensitivity.
I am not my trauma.
I am not a diagnosis someone assigned to me during a difficult season.
Those things may be part of my story.
They are not my identity.
And maybe that’s why the documentary affected me more than I expected.
Not because it changed my opinions.
Because it reminded me that every label belongs to a person.
A person with a history.
A person with fears.
A person with losses.
A person trying to find their way home.
It’s easy to react to a label.
It’s much harder to remain curious about a human being.
But I think curiosity is where understanding begins.
And maybe that’s what I’ve been longing for all along.
Not agreement.
Not approval.
Not even understanding.
Just the chance to arrive before the label does.