Who Are You: When the Labels Fall Away?

Fifteen years ago, Dena sat in a poetry writer’s group with a prompt that sounds simple — until you try to answer it honestly:

Who are you?

Not your title.
Not your role.
Not your past.

Just… you.

It took her three hours.

Three hours to move beyond “mother,” “daughter,” “cancer survivor,” “inmate”.

Three hours to sit with herself long enough to name something deeper — something harder to reach.

The poem she wrote that day still exists.
Not just on paper — but in the way she lives, speaks, laughs, and shows up today.

“I write; even when I’m afraid words won’t get heard.”

When Dena read that line back to us, she didn’t hesitate.

“That one,” she said. “That’s still me.”

Because writing, for her, was never just about words. It was about being seen. About pushing through the fear of being misunderstood — and choosing to speak anyway.

Even now, that instinct hasn’t changed.

She still shows up.
Still speaks.
Still reaches out — especially to people who feel overlooked or unheard themselves.

But if you stopped there, you’d only be getting half the story.

Because Dena is also this:

“I dance; I dance; I dance.”
“I howl — ooohh — and make monkey sounds too.”

And yes—she means that.

That joy, that playfulness, that willingness to be a little loud, a little goofy, a little unapologetically human — it’s not random.

It’s survival.

“Life has not been easy,” she told us plainly.

There were years filled with pain, uncertainty, and labels that didn’t always reflect who she truly was. There were moments where the world made assumptions. Moments where it would’ve been easier to shut down.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she found something else.

“If I couldn’t cry,” she said, “then what do I do? I laugh.”

Not because things were funny.
But because laughter became a kind of shield.
A release.
A way to keep going.

“That goofiness,” she said, smiling, “that’s been my safety net.”

That mindset didn’t come from an easy life.

It came from living through hard things — and deciding they wouldn’t have the final say.

Today, Dena brings that same energy into every space she walks into — as a Client Advocate at The Landing MN, showing up each day for others who are navigating their own complex journeys.

She laughs loud.
She connects easily.
She helps without hesitation — something she traces back to her great grandmother, who taught her early on that caring for others isn’t optional. It’s who you are.

And you feel it immediately.

Not as something forced or performative — but as something deeply rooted.

Something lived-in.

When we asked her what she would say to the version of herself who wrote that poem 15 years ago, she took a long, reflective pause, staring at a copy of the poem she held in her hands..

“The pain goes away,” she said, not looking up from the sheet of paper.

Then, after another moment:

“Things do get better. Ride the roller coaster. Go ‘whee.’”

It sounds simple. Almost playful.

But coming from her — it carries weight.

Because she’s lived both sides.

She’s been, in her own words, the “good girl” and the “bad girl.” She’s seen what it means to lose yourself — and what it takes to come back.

And through all of it, something essential remained.

Not untouched.
Not unchanged.

But still there.

That’s what makes her story powerful.

Not that she overcame hardship.
Not that she reinvented herself.

But that, even in the hardest moments — she was still becoming who she already was.

Someone who dreams in color.
Someone who laughs from the gut.
Someone who loves selflessly.
Someone who, even in uncertainty, whispers, “thank you, God.”

At The Landing MN, we talk a lot about meeting people where they’re at.

Dena lives that out every day.

Not because she has all the answers — but because she understands the questions.

She knows what it feels like to be misunderstood.
To be labeled.
To be counted out.

And she also knows what it feels like to be seen.

So she makes sure others are.

With a joke.
With a laugh.
With a well-timed, completely unexpected animal noise.

Because sometimes, the most radical thing a person can do — after everything they’ve been through — is choose to remain soft.
Choose to remain open.
Choose to remain themselves.

And sometimes, the truest version of who we are… has been there all along.

Read Dena’s poem in its entirety below*:

Me

By Dena

I am attractive; at least that’s what I want

to believe because,

I am an optimist – why believe in waiting

pain, when wishing joy is more fun.

I help people; because my great

grandmother taught me to.

I write; even when I’m afraid words won’t

get heard.

I go hard with studies; education is

important to me.

I understand being poor; yet needing

nothing.

I live a life, I create in my mind.

I dance; I dance; I dance.

I howl — ooohh — and make monkey sounds

too (Do it!)

I am willing to explore new things.

I dream in color.

I laugh from the gut; deep and loud.

I cry when I’m happy.

I pray when I think;

I think too much.

I’m quiet only one week a year.

I love selflessly.

I’m here and happy.

I rejoice.

I whisper, “Thank you, God.”

*orginally published in You Are Beautiful: A Newsletter By and For Women in Prison – Fall 2011