You Are Not Your Story: What I Learned About Identity in an Acting Program (and What Scripture Actually Says)

I need to tell you something that might change how you see yourself.

You are not your trauma.

You are not your roles—mother, wife, daughter, employee.

You are not your failures or your achievements.

You are not even your emotions, your body, or your circumstances.

You are spirit—beloved of God—living a story.

And the distinction between WHO you are and WHAT you’re experiencing might be one of the most healing truths you ever touch.

Not because it erases pain.

But because it refuses to let pain become identity.

A Quick Clarification: What I Mean by “Spirit”

Before we go further, let me be clear.

When I say spirit, I’m not saying you’re the Holy Spirit. That’s God. Not you.

I’m talking about your human spirit—your core self, made in God’s image. The “you” underneath the roles, underneath the emotional flooding, underneath the scrambling to be okay.

The part of you that can be led by the Holy Spirit when you’re not being hijacked by wounded or protective parts.

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What I Mean by “Parts”

When I talk about parts, I’m not saying you’re broken, divided, or fragmented.

I’m naming something deeply human.

Parts are the emotional, protective, and wounded aspects of us that develop in response to life—especially pain, threat, or responsibility that came too early.

A part might show up as:

• rage that flares quickly

• fear that feels overwhelming

• perfectionism that won’t let you rest

• numbness that shuts things down

• hyper-responsibility that never turns off

These parts are not sinful.

They’re not enemies.

And they are not who you are.

They are responses—attempts to protect something vulnerable inside you.

When I talk about living from my spirit, I don’t mean eliminating these parts or bypassing them. I mean meeting them with compassion, while letting my spirit—my core self, made in God’s image—lead.

Parts need care.

Spirit provides the ground.

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Here’s the simplest way I can say it:

• The Holy Spirit = God’s presence in you

• Your spirit = your core self, made in God’s image

• Your parts = the wounded, reactive, protective layers that rise up in pain or threat

  
  

Romans 8:16 actually holds this distinction: “The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children.”

Two different things. God’s Spirit. Our spirit.

When I’m living from my spirit—steady, grounded, able to observe—I can hear and respond to the Holy Spirit’s leading. When parts take over—rage, panic, shame, performance—I’m not only disconnected from myself… I’m often disconnected from God’s peace too.

So when I say, “You are spirit,” I mean: you are a beloved child of God, made in His image, capable of witnessing your own life without being consumed by it.

Not divine. Not “god.”

Human. But made for connection with the Divine.

The Backstory: How an Acting Program Wrecked Me (in the Best Way)

Years ago, I enrolled in a somatic acting program. It was designed to rewire the nervous system and create paradigm shifts. And honestly? Some of it felt borderline New Age.

But something happened there that I couldn’t shake.

I learned to identify my neutral, stable self from the circumstances around me—and from the meanings I was attaching to those circumstances.

I learned there was a part of me—a core observer—that existed independently of whatever was happening to me.

At the time, I didn’t have language for it. I just knew that when I was deep in emotion, hating my life, feeling consumed… there was still an awareness underneath it all. A witness. A center that could observe the storm without being destroyed by it.

I tucked that away. Filed it under: Interesting… but maybe heretical.

Fast forward to now. I’m deep in trauma healing work, learning Internal Family Systems (IFS), and building a framework for Christian women who are trying to reclaim identity, voice, and agency after living inside survival roles.

And I keep coming back to this question:

What if one of the most healing things we can do is separate who we are from what we are experiencing?

What if our core identity—spirit, beloved, made in God’s image—is stable…while our story—trauma, roles, emotions, seasons—is real, but not permanent and not defining?

The Biblical Case for “Spirit Living a Story”

Here’s where it gets wild.

This isn’t New Age. It’s deeply biblical.

Paul keeps pointing to a reality beneath the surface of daily life—a truer anchor than circumstances.

Colossians 3:3: “For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God.” Your true life—your deepest self—is hidden in Christ. Safe. Anchored. Not tossed around by every chapter.

Galatians 2:20: “I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.” Paul’s old identity—his story-based identity—was crucified. He still lived a human story, but it wasn’t his foundation anymore.

2 Corinthians 5:17: “If anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!” Your story may contain the old… but your identity is the new creation.

Do you see the pattern?

• WHO you are: spirit, beloved, life hidden in Christ

• WHAT you’re experiencing: a human story—beautiful, broken, complex, temporary

Your story matters. It needs tending. It deserves compassion.

But it is not who you are.

Why This Matters When You’re Drowning

Let me get practical, because theology is not helpful if it can’t hold you when you’re flooded.

Recently, I was overwhelmed—rage, grief, anxiety, the whole crashing wave. It felt like I was the emotion. Like it was proving something terrible about me. Like it was defining me.

And then I remembered this framework:

If this doesn’t feel like my spirit—steady, curious, compassionate—then it must be a part of me that needs care. Not correction. Not dismissal. But presence.

That part doesn’t need to be argued with or eliminated. It needs to be seen, named as human and temporary, and met with the kind of attention that says: You belong, but you are not the whole of me.

From that place, I can offer what the part is actually asking for—witness, reassurance of non-identity, compassion, love, truth, mercy, and right relationship—without letting it define who I am.

That one thought created space.

I wasn’t rage. I was spirit experiencing rage.

I wasn’t consumed. I was noticing a part that felt consumed.

And from that place—from my spirit, where I could finally hear God again—I could turn toward the part with curiosity instead of being hijacked by it.

What part of me is feeling this?

What is it protecting?

What does it need?

Suddenly, I wasn’t drowning. I was present. Grounded. Able to offer that part what it needed: witness, safety, compassion.

This is what it looks like to live from spirit instead of being ruled by parts.

As this distinction between who I am and what I’m living begins to settle, I’m noticing something else rise with it: grief.

When identity loosens from survival roles, it doesn’t create emptiness — it creates room. And in that room, loss finally has somewhere to land. Grief for what was taken. Grief for what never should have been required. Grief for the version of myself that had to survive instead of simply become.

I’m beginning to understand that grief isn’t the opposite of freedom — it’s often what lives on the other side of it. Not something to fix or rush through, but something sacred that deserves its own attention. I’ll be sharing more about that side of the journey soon.

“Okay, But How Do I Remember This When I’m Flooded?”

I’ve asked this question in tears.

So here’s what I’m learning, simply:

1) You need anchors

Physical reminders that bring you back. Hand on heart. Three breaths. A bracelet. A sticky note. A phone background. Even a tattoo if that’s what it takes.

A phrase you can return to when your mind disappears.

For me: “I am spirit first. This is my story.”

2) You need practice when you’re not flooded

You can’t learn to swim in a hurricane. Practice returning when you’re calm—prayer, grounding, silence, breath, Scripture—so that when the storm hits, you have a path home.

3) You need community

People who see your belovedness when you can’t. People who don’t reduce you to your story.

4) You have to expect to forget

You will get hijacked by parts again. That doesn’t mean you failed. It means you’re human.

The practice isn’t perfection.

The practice is returning.

What About “Assigned”? Did God Want My Trauma?

I know the word assigned can hit wrong.

If I say “spirit assigned to a story,” does that mean God assigned my trauma?

No. I do not believe God orchestrated harm, abuse, or suffering as some kind of cosmic lesson plan.

Here’s what I mean by “assigned”:

• You were born into this life—this time, place, family, wiring

• This is the story you’re stewarding—not someone else’s

• It includes beauty and brokenness because we live in a fallen world

• God didn’t cause the trauma, but He will walk with you through it and redeem what was meant for harm

If “assigned” feels too loaded, use different language:

• spirit living a story

• spirit stewarding a story

• spirit experiencing a story

The language matters less than the truth.

The Freedom This Brings

When you know you’re spirit (not your story), something opens.

You can rest without guilt—because your worth isn’t tied to productivity.

You can fail without shame—because a failed project doesn’t mean you’re a failure.

You can create without pressure—because art becomes expression, not proof.

You can grieve without being consumed—because you’re spirit observing grief, not being swallowed by it.

You can hold your trauma with compassion—because it happened to you, but it isn’t you.

You can engage your calling without performance anxiety—because “artist” or “mother” or “healer” is a chapter, not your foundation.

You are free.

Not free from pain.

But free from captivity.

An Invitation (If You Want a Way to Practice This)

I’m creating a 30-Day Identity Challenge to walk through this framework together. Scripture-based. trauma-aware. practical.

We’ll ground in what God says about you.

We’ll learn to notice parts without being hijacked.

We’ll build anchors for flooded moments.

We’ll practice returning to spirit and to Christ—again and again.

Because so many of us have spent our whole lives being told:

You are your story.

You are your trauma.

You are your role.

You are your productivity.

You are your mistakes.

And it is crushing us.

What if you’re not?

What if the most radical thing you could do is learn to say:

“I am spirit. This is my story. And my story is real, but it’s not who I am.”

A Prayer for Us

God, help me remember who I am.

Help me see myself the way You see me—beloved, chosen, made in Your image.

When parts of me rise up in fear, anger, or grief, help me meet them with presence instead of judgment. Teach me to see them as human and temporary—not something to eliminate, but something to hold in right relationship.

When I forget, remind me through Your Holy Spirit that I am not my emotions, my roles, or my story.

Root me again in my spirit—the core self You created—so I can offer my parts what they’re asking for: witness, reassurance, compassion, love, truth, mercy, and right relationship.

When I’m overwhelmed, anchor me in this truth:

I am Yours. I am beloved. I am spirit living a story.

And my story is real, but it is not who I am.

Amen.

With you in the in-between,

Natalie

P.S. Yes, part of this came from a somatic acting program that felt borderline New Age. And yes, it’s also deeply biblical. Sometimes God uses unexpected places to teach us something true. Test it against Scripture. Keep what aligns. Release what doesn’t. That’s what I’m doing—and it’s setting me free.