Who Am I Without the Name Tag?

I've spent the last six months doing a lot of self-reflection.

I've written about grief. I've written about faith. I've written about thriving. I've written about purpose. I've written about theatre, fatherhood, marriage, accountability, and personal growth.

Lately, I've been working on a project I'm calling Unpacking Jere—a journey of self-discovery designed to help me better understand who I am, where I need to grow, and who God is inviting me to become.

The very first assignment seemed simple enough.

Who is Jere Van Patten?

Easy, right?

Not exactly.

There was one catch.

I wasn't allowed to use any roles, accomplishments, personality traits, relationships, responsibilities, or what other people think of me.

No husband. No father. No theatre teacher. No director. No writer. No Christian. No mentor. No leader. No "funny." No "creative." No "compassionate."

None of it.

Just...

Who are you?

I stared at that question for over a week. And I had nothing. Not a paragraph. Not a sentence. Not even a decent opening line.

Nothing.

I can tell you my resume, my accomplishments, my failures, my dreams, my strengths, my weaknesses, my favorite Broadway shows, and even my Taco Bell order. But when someone asked me a seemingly simple question: Who are you? I had no answer.

That realization bothered me more than I expected.

Because if I'm being honest, I've always thought of myself as a pretty self-aware person.

I've spent years examining my thoughts, feelings, motivations, strengths, weaknesses, successes, failures, faith, and relationships.

I've sat in therapy. I've written thousands of words in journals and blog posts. I've had countless conversations about growth and healing.

So why was this question so difficult?

I think it's because most of us spend our lives answering a whole different set of questions in an attempt to explain ourselves.

We answer:

What do you do? What are you good at? Who do you belong to? What have you accomplished? What do other people think of you?

Those questions are easy.

At least they are for me.

But this question was different. It stripped away all the things I normally use to explain myself. And once they were gone, I wasn't sure what remained.

I've spent months writing about thriving, grief, faith, theatre, fatherhood, purpose, accountability, and growth. Then somebody asks:

"Who are you without your roles, accomplishments, personality traits, relationships, or what other people think of you?"

And suddenly the theatre teacher has no lines. The guy who makes a living helping students discover characters couldn't identify his own. That was an uncomfortable realization.

But it was also revealing.

Because the longer I sat with the question, the more I realized how much of my identity has become intertwined with what I do.

When a production succeeds, I feel successful. When students grow, I feel valuable. When I accomplish something meaningful, I feel worthy.

And while none of those things are bad, they make a fragile foundation.

Because what happens when the production closes? What happens when the job changes? What happens when the kids leave home? What happens when the titles disappear?

If my identity depends on those things, then so does my sense of worth.

And that's a dangerous place to build a life.

Eventually, I stopped trying to define myself and started paying attention to what kept surfacing beneath the surface.

What emerged wasn't a title. It wasn't a resume. It wasn't a list of strengths. It was something deeper.

I realized that I am a man who has spent most of his life searching for where he belongs. Not because I never belonged. Because I rarely believed I did.

I am a soul who has lived in the tension between faith and doubt, confidence and insecurity, gratitude and grief, certainty and questions. I've spent years trying to resolve those tensions only to discover that much of life is lived in the and.

I am someone who longs to be deeply seen, deeply known, and deeply understood.

I am someone who notices people. I notice the kid sitting alone. The person who feels overlooked. The friend carrying a burden they haven't named yet. The individual who wonders if they matter. I notice them because, in many ways, I am them.

I am a man who has spent much of his life trying to earn what was freely available all along: love, belonging, worth, and grace.

I have often measured my value by what I accomplish, what I create, who I help, or how much difference I make. Yet beneath all of that is a quieter truth I am still learning to trust: My worth was never something I was supposed to achieve. It was something I already possessed.

I am a creator.

Not because I direct plays. Not because I teach theatre. Not because I write blogs. But because God placed something in me that delights in bringing things to life.

Ideas. Possibilities. Stories. People. Hope.

I am drawn toward transformation. In myself and in others.

I am a man who believes people are capable of more than they currently see in themselves.

I believe that because it has been true of me.

I am someone who has known pain. Loss. Shame. Loneliness. Disappointment. Physical limitations. Unanswered questions.

And yet... I am still here.

Not untouched by suffering. Not undefeated. But still standing. Still believing. Still hoping. Still becoming.

I am not some abstract essence floating in space.

I am a story. 

A soul. 

A collection of wounds, hopes, choices, beliefs, loves, losses, and divine fingerprints.

I am a beloved son of God.

Not because I earned that title. Not because I got everything right. Not because my faith has never wavered. But because He decided that was true before I ever accomplished even one single thing.

And perhaps more than anything else...

I am a man in process. A man being formed. A man learning that growth is not about becoming someone or something else.

It is about becoming honest enough to be who God created me to be from the very beginning.

I'm not sure I've fully answered the question yet.

In fact, I suspect I'll be unpacking it for the rest of my life.

But for the first time, I think I'm finally asking the right one.

And, it’s nice to meet me.