This Ain’t Even My Signature: Reclaiming the Real Me
A comic-style illustration of a Black woman with honey-colored skin and a big twist-out hairstyle standing in a clothing clearance aisle. Bright orange “Clearance” and “Sale” stickers are stuck on her forehead, chest, and hand, labeled with phrases like “Discounted Dreams,” “Marked Down Love,” and “Survival Only.” She wears an orange shirt, her eyes closed, with a somber expression, surrounded by racks of clothe
It’s one thing to live life on the clearance rack, never asking for what you deserve. But it’s another kind of ache to live as a knock-off version of yourself — an off-brand, generic substitute for the woman you were meant to become.
That was me for a long time. I wasn’t pretending — I was functioning. Producing. Showing up. Grinding. But it was all survival. And survival has a slick way of dressing itself up as purpose. It looks like ambition, it smells like success — but underneath, it’s just fear in a fancy outfit.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking, Is this really me? That’s when a version of me, forged by other people’s fears, expectations, and projections, slipped in almost convincingly.
And that forged version of me didn’t just work for dollars or for my kids’ futures. I worked for love. Everything I did carried a quiet hope: maybe if I did enough, carried enough, proved enough, someone would choose me. Not just romantically — but spiritually, emotionally. Someone to say, “You don’t have to do this alone.”
That longing wasn’t new. But after motherhood, it got louder. I didn’t just want a partner. I wanted a witness. A covering. Someone who’d see me doing the impossible and say, “Let me help you hold it.”
The problem? I didn’t believe I was worthy of the kind of love I craved. So I settled into relationships that mirrored my uncertainty. Not because the men were malicious — we were all in survival mode. But I kept hoping someone else would legitimize me. Instead, they added to the weight.
Slowly, the version of me that was soft and worthy hardened. I learned to settle — for attention, for “good enough,” for what was available. I lost sight of ease, comfort, pleasure, support.
Illustration of a woman with pecan-colored skin and long hair standing in front of two mirrors. In one, styled as a Facebook profile frame, she appears polished and smiling, wearing a cami, blazer, jeans, and white tennis shoes. In the other mirror, her real self is reflected: barefaced, heavier, tired, and wearing just a cami and jeans, with a weary expression.
The Mirror Doesn’t Lie
I remember staring at my Facebook profile photo. I’d had it up for years — hiding behind it. The mirror didn’t lie: barefaced, heavier, tired. Not ugly, but not whole. Trauma had settled into my body and my spirit.
I had done good work — excellent work — but I’d sacrificed myself in the process. A counterfeit version of me had taken the reins. Not forged like iron through fire, but forged like a fake signature. The edits were subtle enough that I could still pass. Still succeed. But deep down, I was disconnected from joy, softness, and rest.
I became the queen of bouncing back. People praised my strength. I became the blueprint. But the truth? I was detached. Performing strength because I didn’t trust tenderness. I didn’t know how to say: I’m tired. I’m lonely. I need help.
And then life made it undeniable. While writing A Pot to P*ss In, my family and I faced things that could’ve taken us out — violence, mental health scares, a major accident. Something in me knew: this wasn’t a season to grind. It was a season to soften. To breathe. To trust God and the timing.
That’s the tension I had to face: the warrior in me who knows how to burn through anything, and the woman I’m becoming who knows when to rest in the fire without losing herself in the heat.
A woman encased in heavy, gray steel armor that is cracked in several places. From the cracks, glowing orange flowers and green leaves emerge, symbolizing softness and healing breaking through the hardness.
The Cost of Survival
We’re told what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. But sometimes, what doesn’t kill you just… burns you. You survive, but you warp. You harden in places that were meant to stay soft. That’s what resilience does without healing — survival dressed as strength, pain dressed as purpose.
And that override took a lot from me.
It stole my softness, convincing me I was built only to labor.
It stripped away rest — even when I had time, my body didn’t trust it.
It made ease feel like a trick, and receiving love feel like a debt.
I called that the work. But it was really a wound.
The deeper reckoning came when I realized survival had rewritten me — tiny falsifications etched into my wiring. I said yes when I meant no. I carried outcomes that weren’t mine. I believed joy had to be earned through hardship.
These weren’t truths. They were forgeries. And they nearly cost me my original self.
Therapy helped. Faith helped. But healing isn’t a destination — it’s a relationship. I’m still peeling back survival’s edits, reclaiming softness and truth.
Illustration of a floating peacefully in a large round pool on her estate. She wears a burnt orange two-piece bikini, her eyes closed with a joyful expression. Glowing golden threads weave across her arms and torso, symbolizing healing and repair as she rests.
Learning New Truths
Now I ask different questions:
Where did I harden in the name of strength?
Where am I still performing resilience instead of practicing healing?
Where did pain shape me into someone I never agreed to be?
I’m learning rest isn’t weakness — it’s repair. Asking for help isn’t failure — it’s wisdom. Ease isn’t a trick — it’s grace.
And now, Sis, let me turn to you: You don’t have to perform strength for anyone.
Somewhere along the way, someone else may have started signing your name on a version of you that wasn’t yours. Maybe it even got applause. But it wasn’t authored by your truth.
So here’s what I’m saying now:
You get to take the pen back.
You get to re-sign your name in choices that feel like home, in softness that doesn’t ask permission, in love that starts with you.
Because that other version? That counterfeit survival-written self? It’s not the whole story.
You’re not a forgery. You’re the original.
Real image of Dr. Sagashus Levingston with a little class and sass as she invites you to sign up for the Wanted Newsletter.
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ABOUT THE BLOGGER
Dr. Sagashus Levingston is an author, entrepreneur and PhD holder. She has two fur babies, Maya and Gracie, six children (three boys and three girls), and they all (including her partner) live in Madison, WI. She loves all things business, is committed to reminding moms of their power, and is dedicated to playing her part in closing the wealth gap for people of color and women. She believes that mothering is a practice, like yoga, and she fights daily to manage her chocolate intake. The struggle is real, y’all…and sometimes it’s beautiful.
Follow her on Instagram: @infamous.mothers