How Tying Identity to Output Creates Fragility

Welcome to February. For the next four weeks, we’re diving deep into something that quietly sabotages more writers than any craft issue ever could: the way we tie our identity to our output.

This isn’t about productivity hacks or writing faster. This is about the foundation underneath everything else—the relationship between who you are and what you produce.

Because here’s what I’ve learned: when those two things become fused together, everything becomes fragile. One bad writing day feels like evidence you’re not a real writer. A stalled project becomes proof you’re not cut out for this. Rejection becomes a referendum on your worth as a person.

And that fragility? That’s what keeps writers stuck.

When a Label Becomes Who You Are

I need to tell you something I don’t talk about much.

When I was in elementary school, I was diagnosed with ADHD. And from that moment forward, everything changed.

It’s not that ADHD changed who I was, it’s that ADHD changed how people treated me after that diagnosis.

I had to be in different schools. I had special accommodations that announced to everyone that I was different. Teachers talked about me differently. Other kids noticed. And slowly, without anyone explicitly saying it, the message became clear: having ADHD meant something was wrong with me.

The diagnosis shifted from “something I have” to “who I am.”

And here’s what happened when that shift occurred: ADHD stopped being a neurological difference and became an identity marker that meant “less than.” Every struggle in school became evidence. Every time I couldn’t focus the way other kids could, every time I needed extra time, every time I had to ask for help—it all reinforced the same story.

Having ADHD meant being dumb.

I internalized that so deeply that even now, decades later, even after graduating from an honors college, I still fight the thought that I’m not intelligent enough. Some days I still wonder how they let me into that college. Didn’t they know?

That’s what happens when identity fuses with outcome. The external label becomes internal truth. And no amount of contrary evidence—not honors, not graduation, not any achievement—can fully dislodge it.

Because once your identity is tied to output, the bar just keeps moving.

How This Shows Up for Writers

You might not have an ADHD diagnosis, but I’m willing to bet you have your own version of this.

Maybe someone told you that you weren’t creative. Or that writing wasn’t a “real” career. Or that you should focus on something practical instead.

Maybe you got rejected from a writing program, or received harsh feedback on something you poured your heart into, or showed your work to someone who didn’t get it.

And somewhere along the way, that external judgment became internal identity.

“I’m not a real writer.” “I’m not good enough yet.” “I don’t have what it takes.”

And now? Now every writing session becomes a test. Every sentence you produce is evidence—either you’re proving you’re a writer, or you’re proving you’re not.

When your identity is fused with your output, writing stops being about creation and starts being about proof.

The Fragility of Outcome-Based Identity

Here’s why this is so destructive:

When your identity depends on what you produce, you can’t separate project problems from personal problems.

The manuscript isn’t working? You’re not good enough.

The chapter isn’t landing? You’re a bad writer.

The project stalls? You’re not cut out for this.

Every setback becomes evidence in a case you’re building against yourself. And because the identity is so fragile—because it depends entirely on external validation and measurable outcomes—it collapses constantly.

You’re always one bad draft away from questioning whether you’re really a writer at all.

I spent years believing I wasn’t intelligent enough. And graduating with honors didn’t fix it. Getting my degree didn’t fix it. Starting my business didn’t fix it.

Because the belief wasn’t actually about what I accomplished. It was about who I thought I was at my core.

And as long as my identity was tied to outcomes—to grades, to achievements, to external markers of “enough”—no outcome could ever be enough.

What Actually Defines You

Here’s what I’ve learned the hard way:

Your identity isn’t what you do. It’s who you are underneath all of that.

Your values. Your character. The way you show up in the world.

I’m kind. I’m honest. I’m authentic, sometimes to a fault. I’m a good listener. I’m someone who points out biases, even when it makes people uncomfortable. I care deeply about helping people see their own potential.

Those things? Those are my identity. Those don’t change based on whether I write a newsletter this week or miss a deadline or whether my business succeeds or fails.

Those are stable. Those are real.

The things I do—coach, write, read, build a business—those are expressions of who I am. But they’re not who I am at my core.

And here’s the beautiful thing about separating those two:

When my identity is rooted in my values instead of my outputs, failure doesn’t threaten who I am. A stalled project is just a stalled project. A bad draft is just a bad draft. It’s not evidence that I’m broken or insufficient or unworthy.

It’s just data. It’s just feedback. It’s just part of the process.

The Writer’s Version of This

So here’s what I want you to consider:

What if your identity as a writer wasn’t about what you produce?

What if being a writer meant something deeper—something that couldn’t be taken away by rejection, by failure, by a project that doesn’t work out?

What if being a writer meant:

• You’re someone who stays curious about stories
• You’re someone who shows up even when it’s hard
• You’re someone who cares deeply about characters and worlds and ideas
• You’re someone who’s willing to be vulnerable on the page
• You’re someone who values the process of discovery

Those things can be true whether you finish a book this year or not. Whether you get published or not. Whether anyone else ever reads your work or not.

Those things are stable. Those things are real.

And ironically, when your identity is rooted in those things instead of in outcomes, you’re far more likely to actually finish the book. Because you’re not carrying the weight of proving yourself with every sentence.

You’re just writing because you’re a writer. Because that’s who you are.

The Question That Changes Everything

Here’s what I want you to ask yourself this week:

What external labels have you internalized as identity?

What did someone tell you about yourself—about your writing, about your abilities, about your worth—that you’ve been carrying as truth?

And what would shift if you separated who you are from what you produce?

Because here’s what I know: you’re not your output. You’re not your word count. You’re not your publication status or your Amazon ranking or whether you finished that draft on time.

You’re the values you hold. The way you show up. The care you bring to your work.

And that? That’s unshakeable.

What’s Coming Next Week

Next week, we’re digging into why stalled projects feel like personal failure—and how to separate project problems from identity problems.

Because once you understand that a struggling manuscript doesn’t mean you’re a struggling writer, everything changes.

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