Copyright 2025 - Sabine O’Laughlin

By Sabine O’Laughlin, MD

Let’s start with a confession: I love a good label. There’s something deliciously satisfying about finally putting a name to that weird thing you do or feel. Like discovering that your obsession with organizing your cabinets isn’t just a quirky hobby—it’s a sign you’re a Virgo moon with executive dysfunction and a Pinterest addiction. Suddenly, things click. You’re no longer a chaotic mess—you’re a “Type 7 on the Enneagram with ADHD tendencies and a touch of burnout.” Phew. Label applied. Soul soothed.

Labels can be magical. They can offer clarity, belonging, even relief. But they can also unknowingly sneak into your identity like an unwelcome piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe. That label can follow you around causing others to react and respond in certain ways while you blindly go through your life. Learning to look around you, and even under your shoe, to discover the source of your labels is crucial. 

This chapter is a love letter to curiosity—and a cautionary tale about the way labels, while helpful, can become prisons if we hold them too tightly. It’s for anyone who’s ever thought, “I’m just not that kind of person,” or “I’ve always been this way,” and stopped themselves from growing, trying, or becoming more.

The Labels We Inherited (and Never Questioned)

Let’s rewind to childhood. Were you the “smart one?” The “shy one?” The “dramatic one?” The “responsible one?”

I was the “stubborn” one. Adults loved telling me that I was “stubborn as a mule” which really just meant I couldn’t move on from things. As a child, I internalized this as a negative trait: I didn’t do what others wanted me to do, and it often inconvenienced them. 

But here’s the thing about childhood labels: they stick. And sometimes they solidify before we’ve even had a chance to become who we really are.If you were labeled “the sensitive one,” maybe you learned to apologize for your emotions. If you were the “difficult one,” maybe you stopped trusting your instincts. If you were the “peacemaker,” maybe you gave up your voice altogether in the name of keeping everyone else calm.

These labels might’ve had a grain of truth—but they didn’t capture the whole picture. They weren’t the whole you. They were snapshots, not documentaries.

And yet… they often became the script. So often, I speak with people who have constructed their entire lives around a role they were assigned as a child. I’ve met teachers who were bossy oldest children: they spent their childhood caring for and instructing their younger siblings, and the role stuck. I’ve met a doctor who had a sick parent: he gave his childhood to caring for his mom and the identity carried him into the field of medicine. Now these examples might capitalize on a person’s natural gifts, but in both cases, they found themselves dissatisfied in their jobs as they got older. They had an innate sense that maybe there was more to them than a label they accrued as a child. 

Not only do labels shape what we do, they also determine what we don’t do. We might forgo a trip with friends or a challenging exercise class or a new type of food, all because we’re still acting out those roles. We say things like, “Oh, I could never do that—I’m just not built that way.” But is that true? Or is that a label you never thought to peel off?

As you get older, labels start to take on fancier names. 

Enter: the Enneagram. Myers-Briggs. CliftonStrengths. Human Design. Attachment styles. The Four Tendencies. Your zodiac sign. Your Spotify aura. Your “Which Golden Girl Are You?” quiz result. (Dorothy, every time.)

The world of typology is endless. Many of these resources can be incredible tools for self-discovery. It might give you definition around abstract parts of your personality or insight into that pesky habit you thought you could never shake. But once again, these personality tests provide labels. And a label cannot be our stopping point. 

I’m not here to criticize these tools. I love a good typology. I have read every Enneagram book. I know my MBTI type and my secondary subtype. I have spreadsheets comparing my results from different assessments, like a nerdy little gopher digging for insight.

These frameworks can absolutely help us understand how we move through the world. They can offer language for our patterns and preferences. They can give us a sense of belonging—“Oh, I’m not broken, I’m just a Nine who struggles with inertia.” What a gift!

But problems arise when we start using those labels like barbed-wire fences instead of gentle guides.

When “I’m a Four” becomes an excuse to wallow in melancholy rather than do the hard work of showing up. When “I’m an introvert” becomes a reason to never stretch toward connection. When “I’m a Rebel” (hello, Four Tendencies) becomes a full-time identity instead of a starting point for understanding how I resist structure—and how I might work with it instead of against it.

We forget: these systems are descriptive, not prescriptive. They are maps—not the entire terrain.

Now let’s go even deeper into the label pool: diagnoses.

ADHD. Autism. Depression. Anxiety. OCD. PTSD.

These are not personality types. These are real, often medical, terms with massive implications. 

And for many women—especially those of us raised in the “just try harder” era—a diagnosis in midlife can feel like someone finally gave us the operating manual we didn’t know we were missing.

A diagnosis can be permission. To rest. To ask for help. To stop blaming ourselves for things that were never moral failings to begin with. So many women I know carry around understandings of themselves that are heavy. They see themselves stuck on a hamster wheel of never ending effort, followed by the shame of not doing enough. They might see the random piles of stuff around their homes as a constant reminder of their shortcomings. Others perceive their social awkwardness as the reason their children aren’t plugged into the right friend groups. Women especially tend to be the “water carriers” for their spouses and families. They, without always being asked, carry the water up the hill for their families. They bear the brunt of the effort often without realizing that they have the option to share the load. After years of doing this, they start to discover that their shoulders sag, their palms are calloused and raw, and their backs are starting to break under the unbearable weight of carrying this water. 

Now sometimes, we carry this water for reasons other than a diagnosis, personality test, or label. But it should lead us to the same curiosity: why am I carrying this water up the hill? And why am I not willing to let someone else offer to take the water for me? 

When I first encountered the idea that I might be living with ADHD, it was like someone had opened a secret door in my brain. Suddenly my past made sense: the lost keys, the forgotten emails, the way I could hyperfocus on writing for five hours and then forget to eat lunch or pee. It wasn’t that I was flaky—it was that my brain worked differently.

Here’s what I used to think ADHD was: a hyper kid doing laps around the classroom while simultaneously forgetting how to sit in a chair or complete a sentence. You know, the classic: can’t focus, too much energy, distracted by shiny objects.

But what I’m learning is—it’s actually the opposite. It’s not that I can’t focus. It’s that I can’t stop focusing. The challenge isn’t an attention deficit. It’s attention gridlock.

Case in point: the Wi-Fi router incident.

I got a new Wi-Fi router, which is both a symbol of progress and the beginning of the end. It’s like replacing the central nervous system of your house. Wi-Fi controls my laptop, my phone, the smart TV, the coffee maker (probably). My cousin, who happened to be visiting and is a functional adult, kindly offered to help. I said, “Sure, it’ll take like five minutes.” This is the part of the story where you, dear reader, can insert a laugh track. Because nothing—nothing—with electronics takes five minutes. Especially not when you’re me.

Cue: logins, serial numbers, instructions in 6-point font, and a tech support hotline that may or may not have been staffed by a sentient potato.

Now, here’s the moment where a neurotypical person would say, “Welp, looks like we’re out of time, let’s hit pause and circle back later.”

And here’s what I said:
“No. We finish this now. Or I die trying.”

This is what ADHD can look like. Not bouncing off walls, but dug in so deep you forget there are walls. Three hours later—yes, three—the Wi-Fi worked. I felt like a warrior who had just returned from battle, dragging the slain router beast behind me.

I told my boss why I was late. He asked the reasonable question: “Why not just abort the mission when you realized you were out of time?”

I blinked and said, “I just couldn’t let it go.”

What looks like persistence and determination (and hey, let’s be honest, a little bit of badassery) was also a symptom: hyperfocus. Once I’m in, I’m all in. I’m elbow-deep in the wiring of the Wi-Fi and the wiring of my own brain, and there’s no exit ramp.

Here’s another twisty bit of ADHD: people think it’s all about chaos and forgetfulness. But I see everything. 

If you tell me four tasks? I see 50. Because the four you mentioned are clearly connected to six others you didn’t mention, and those are connected to the seventeen I imagined while you were talking. If you ask me later what the four original tasks were? Forget it. I’ve mentally built a theme park around them.

Is that a strength? Sure. Is it also a liability? Yep. It depends on the day.

That’s what I’m learning. ADHD is not a tragic flaw or a quirky personality trait. It’s a tendency—a wiring—that has a front side and a backside. 

Finding the ADHD label has been liberating and freeing and exhilarating, but only because I’ve used the diagnosis as a springboard for more discovery. It can be tempting to find a label that brings relief and make it your whole personality.

It can be easy to start sentences with “As someone with anxiety…” and end them with “so I just can’t do that.” It can be tempting to use the diagnosis as a reason to opt out of growth, risk, or curiosity. Not because we’re lazy—but because the label feels so clear, so comforting, that we’re afraid to step outside of it.

But a diagnosis is a door, not a cage.

It should give you tools and language—but it should never be the end of your story. You are not your DSM code. (Note to Reader: DSM is the abbreviation for the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, which is used in the mental health field.) You are not your test result. You are a person in process. Always.

Even if you’re ready to question your labels, others might not be. You’ve always been “the chill one,” so when you finally speak up or set a boundary, people bristle.

You’ve always been the “organized one,” so when you drop the ball or admit you’re overwhelmed, people are surprised—or even disappointed.

You’ve always been “the strong one,” so when you say you need help, people don’t know what to do with you.

Changing the way you show up can threaten other people’s stories about you. But here’s the thing: their discomfort is not your emergency. Their confusion is not your problem to solve.

You get to grow. You get to evolve. You get to take off the labels—even if that unsettles someone else’s filing system.

Labels love simplicity. They like tidy categories. But people are not tidy. We are gloriously complicated. You can be deeply spiritual and laugh until you snort over trashy reality TV. You can be analytical and wildly creative. You can love your children and occasionally fantasize about running away to a quiet mountain cabin where no one asks what’s for dinner. You can be sensitive and strong. You can be recovering from trauma and building a life full of joy.

We are not binary beings. We contain multitudes. And any label that doesn’t leave room for your complexity isn’t worth keeping.

The Label Graveyard

Let’s do a little practice.

Grab a piece of paper or open your Notes app.

Write down all the labels you've worn—past and present. Good, bad, neutral. Childhood labels. Diagnoses. Job titles. Roles. Things people have called you. Things you’ve called yourself.

Now sort them:

• Which ones feel true and freeing?

• Which ones feel restrictive?

• Which ones feel outdated?

• Which ones were never yours to begin with?
  

Cross out the ones that no longer serve you. Say goodbye to them. Burn the paper if you’re into symbolic rituals. Or just whisper, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Now write down some new ones. Ones that feel expansive. Maybe even a little cheeky.

• Recovering perfectionist

• Late-blooming badass

• Compassionate truth-teller

• Curious chaos-bringer

• Tenderhearted survivor with boundary issues and great taste in snacks
  

You get to name yourself now.

And you get to keep changing the name.

Next time you catch yourself saying, “I’m just not that kind of person…” try replacing it with, “I haven’t tried that yet,” or “I wonder what would happen if I did?”

Instead of “I’m a mess,” try “I’m figuring it out.”

Instead of “I’ve always been like this,” try “Maybe I don’t have to be anymore.”

Instead of asking “Who am I?” in a desperate, existential way, try asking “Who am I becoming?”

Because that’s the real magic: you are still becoming.

Always.

Forever.

And that is far more beautiful than any label could ever capture.

— End —

Sabine O’Laughlin, MD is a noted pathologist based in Florida, whose interest in death and disease fostered a passion for life and health. A seasoned life coach, she bridges the precision of science with the depth of transformational work to break through the myths of aging, burnout, and “just how it is.”