When Identity Gets Amnesia (Stop Letting Familiar Voices Rename You)

My three daughters grew up with a dad who hammered one phrase into them like it was a family commandment: “Know whose you are.”

If they forget every other parental lecture, all three of them remember that one. It wasn’t about ownership—it was about identity. Who you belong to. What you represent. How you carry yourself when we’re not standing right there watching.

That phrase came rushing back to me this week when I remembered something that happened years ago with my oldest daughter, Winter—our social butterfly, opinionated extrovert, and unofficial playground ambassador—was in the fourth grade.

At the time, I was pregnant with my youngest and supposed to be on limited movement. The elementary school was thankfully just around the corner, so I could drop the girls off and be back on bed rest in a matter of minutes. Or so I thought. No sooner had I gotten settled under the covers than the phone rang.

The school.

Of course.

It was the principal, and I instantly sat straight up in bed like I had been called into the office. She explained that Winter was currently sitting in her office due to an “incident” on the playground involving a group of kids. I remember thinking, how could she have gotten into trouble that fast? They’d barely made it through the front doors.

As the principal continued, she shared that when she tried to explain to Winter that her parents would not approve of that kind of behavior, Winter didn’t exactly receive the correction with humility and reflection.

Instead, she talked back. Well… actually the word the principal used was “belligerent.”

Without missing a beat, I sighed and said ,“Please forgive her. She forgot whose child she is.”

After my morning devotion time and then on my drive to work, that statement made many years ago replayed in my mind. And it struck me how often that’s true—not just for fourth graders on a playground, but for grown adults navigating real life.

As I reflected, it came to me that usually there are three groups that try to get us to question the reality of whose we are.

The first is the enemy of our souls. Satan.

He’s been running the same strategy since the beginning. He even tried it on Jesus. In the middle of a forty-day fast—when Jesus was physically exhausted and humanly vulnerable—the enemy said, “IF you really are the Son of God, jump off this mountain.”

If.

As if Jesus needed to prove anything.

As if risking His life would somehow validate His identity.

You want Me to potentially cause grave injury to Myself just to prove who I already know I am? Absolutely not. Get away from Me.

That’s how the enemy works. He doesn’t usually deny our identity outright—he just places a question mark where God already put a period. He whispers “if” when God has already said you are.

And when we forget whose we are, we start entertaining dares we were never meant to accept and proving things that never needed proof.

The second group is our family.

And that one hurts a little more.

Even though we may share the same parents and bloodline, sometimes the very people who should be most secure in our identity are the ones who question it. They question our worth, our calling, and our obedience—right where there should be no doubt.

Jesus experienced this too. Scripture tells us that even His own siblings thought He was out of His mind. They tried to restrain Him from doing His Kingdom mission and questioned by whose authority He was doing those things.

The same thing happens to many of us. Often, we become the outcasts of the family—not because we’ve done something wrong, but because obedience makes people uncomfortable. Instead of questioning themselves, they try to make you question who you are.

It shows up in sideways comments, awkward silence, or “loving concern” that feels more like doubt than support.

Sharing DNA doesn’t always mean sharing discernment. And sometimes the hardest place to remember whose you are is right in the middle of your own family.

The third group is associates, neighbors, religious people, and peers.

These are the people who know just enough about us to feel qualified to limit us.

They remember where we came from. They saw our humble beginnings. They know our background- they assume they know our limit - and in doing so they miss our calling.

Jesus encountered this too. People said, “Isn’t this the carpenter’s son?”

They underestimated Him because they were familiar with His story but blind to His identity. They mistook humility for limitation and ordinary beginnings for a lack of divine assignment.

There’s an old saying: “Familiarity breeds contempt.”

The danger wasn’t simply that they dismissed Him—the danger was that their familiarity dulled their spiritual senses, causing them to fail to recognize the Son of God standing right in front of them.

And the same thing happens to us.

People will try to reduce us to who we were instead of recognizing who God says we are. They’ll measure us by our past, our last name, or our perceived “type,” and completely miss the calling on our lives.

But knowing a little about someone’s background does not give you authority over their identity.

Mama Wisdom Reflection: Here’s the full-circle truth I came back to this week:

When Winter forgot whose child she was, it didn’t change whose child she actually was. It just meant she needed a reminder.

The same is true for us.

When the enemy whispers “if,” when family questions your calling, and familiarity tries to shrink you—pause and remember whose you are.

Because you don’t need to prove it.

You don’t need to perform for it.

You don’t need to jump off any mountains to validate it.

Sometimes the most powerful thing you can say—whether you’re in a principal’s office or navigating adulthood—is:

“Please forgive me… I had a moment. I forgot whose child I am.”

And then you straighten your crown, adjust your posture, and carry on—

identity intact, authority restored, and no playground drama required.