A few years ago, I was at a party where the host introduced me to a stranger as a “long-standing business journalist.”
I smiled and held out my hand, but before I could say anything more, the stranger lit up and said, “Tell me, how do you feel about crypto?”
I don’t remember much about that conversation. I must have mumbled something out of order (crypto has never been a fan of mine). But what stayed with me was how uncomfortable it all was. I was not introduced as Charles, the man. I was Charles, the journalist, here at the hedge fund manager’s party, almost professionally.
This was not strictly wrong; but it didn’t seem quite right either.
Whenever I think about this incident now, I think about how closely we wear our professional identities.
Much of the time we do not really present ourselves or perceive ourselves as human beings in the fullest sense; we are equated with what we do. I’m Charles, a journalist. You can be Rohit, a technician, Vinicia, an HR manager, or Sunny, a stay-at-home parent.
It’s not entirely our fault; it’s how we’ve been made to think about each other and ourselves. It hit me even harder recently when I was looking through my phone contacts.
What started as a random attempt to delete non-existent numbers quickly turned into a philosophical experiment. For each entry, I asked myself, “Is this name here because I care about this person? Or through the title this person has?”
The answers were sobering. A large part of the names meant to me not because of what they were, but because of what they signified; the professional authority or affiliation they represented.
My next thought was inevitable: if they lost their title, how would I view them? If I lost mine, how would they look at me?
These are painful questions, and I won’t pretend to like the answers. So I thought, why not try living for a while as if my professional identity didn’t exist? Why not stop using the “journalist” card in conversation; stop relying on my professional networks for a while? And why not try to exist only as me, “Charles”?
In theory it sounded simple enough. In practice, it was disorienting.
The first challenge came at a family gathering. Someone asked, “Charles, what’s new in the media?” Instinct told me to jump with the spire. But I didn’t want to do that (and really, what’s the answer to that question?). So instead I said, “Honestly, I’m not sure.”
There was an awkward pause. People looked at me as if I had forgotten my lines in a play. I realized how much I relied on my work to anchor even a casual conversation. It was really, really creepy… until, thankfully, someone else started talking about their work.
My next challenge was a couple of “coffee” requests. I’ve turned down invitations from people who said outright that they wanted to “use my brain as a journalist.”
Then I also realized how often I approach others with their titles in mind. I don’t call my CPA because I want to talk about his garden. I don’t reach out to old colleagues because I miss their company. I do this because they are currently in interesting places that may “fit my goals”. Stripped of these transactional motives, my contact list was like a graveyard of empty connections.
The experiment only lasted a few days, but it also helped me focus on some deeper connections. A neighbor dropped by one evening, for example, with a plate of samosas — no reason, no agenda. We sat on my porch and talked about the city, our shared hatred of traffic, and the fact that he and I had the same parenting issues.
Later that night, I really wondered if I would have paid him the same attention if he was “just” my neighbor instead of someone who occasionally helped out with local community affairs? Maybe not. But that night he was not his title and I was not mine. We were just two people sharing stories about ourselves.
Which brings me to my rather sobering conclusion: We all say we want to be known for who we are, not what we do. But we don’t do it lightly. We wear our professional identities as armor, protecting ourselves from the messiness of real connection.
Of course, the world would not be possible without our labels. Titles connect people in their own way. They also help open doors, grease wheels, and sometimes get a free drink at a conference.
I wouldn’t be talking to you if I wasn’t “Charles, the long-standing business journalist.” You wouldn’t be reading my life advice if it came from “Charles, the guy who Googles how to cook eggs every time he cooks.”
As I type this, I’m wondering if I should delete the last line and go back for the armor. But hey, I’m trying something. Let’s see if we can all lean a little less on our professional personas and let a little more of our silly, flawed, imperfect real selves into the world.
(Charles Assisi is the co-founder of Founding Fuel. He can be reached at assisi@foundingfuel.com)
