I always joke that my future husband will probably call me Dr. Babe when I get my PhD—because weuh, I’ve really worked for it. But that’s on a light note. On a serious one, we live in a world where titles shape how we’re treated. You see people being called mheshimiwa, kiongozi, Madam CEO, and suddenly, they’re being ushered to the front, people bow slightly when they pass, and someone’s sonand husband is running in the rain to fetch their trench coat because, well... the title demands it.
At the mere mention of your name, there’s a hush. People adjust how they walk, how they talk—just to appease you. Not necessarily because of who you are, but because of what you’re called. Titles have become altars of worship in our society.
We often tie our identity to the titles we carry—the roles we play, the positions we occupy, the accomplishments we stack. But what happens when you’re no longer called CEO, Director, Pastor, Doctor, Mama, or Missus? When the name tag is gone, the spotlight dims, and you're left with just... you?
I realized just how obsessed we are with titles in my line of work. One of our exercises during trainings involves asking participants to write down all the titles they carry. And oh boy, don’t they write! The twist, however, is when we ask them to put those titles aside—to show up without them. That’s when it feels like they’re being asked to stand naked. Vulnerable. Exposed.
The reality is, titles are fleeting. One day you're the Executive Director. The next, the economy shakes your position loose, and you're back job hunting. Today, you’re known as bibi ya daktari, and tomorrow, the same man is in courtrooms—not boardrooms—fighting for a divorce.
The danger of fusing identity with titles is that society rewards roles, not authenticity. So when the title goes, so does the recognition—and that can feel like betrayal.
As the movie Fight Club once put it: “You are not your job. You’re not the clothes you wear. You’re not the contents of your wallet.”
We all have a stripping moment—either by choice or by circumstance. It’s a strange stillness—the moment your title is taken away. Like a garment you've worn for so long that your skin forgot how to breathe without it. Suddenly, you’re standing bare. No applause. No introductions. No prefixes before your name. Just you.
It feels like shedding skin—raw, tender, unfamiliar. Confusing, because you thought you were the role. Painful, because you gave it everything. Liberating, because now, there’s space to rediscover who you are beyond performance.
I remember stepping down from a leadership role I had poured my entire heart into. The silence that followed was deafening. No calls. No emails. No decisions to make. For a while, I didn’t know who I was without it.
But slowly, I realized I wasn’t losing myself—I was meeting myself again. Not the version curated for public spaces, but the one who had quietly existed beneath the accolades.
That’s why I no longer attach myself too deeply to titles. They can get to your head. Haven’t we heard of fathers who insist their children call them Sir or Doctor? Or women who refuse to make meals because they’re CEOs?
In the quiet aftermath of loss—of role, of recognition, of rhythm—comes the deeper work. This is where the excavation begins. What remains when there’s no one to impress, no deadlines to meet, no title to carry? What speaks in the silence?
This is where I began to meet my core self—not the version trained to lead rooms or manage crises, but the one who prays when no one is watching. The one whose laughter is loud in her children’s company. The one who writes for healing, not approval. The one God sees before the world names her.
It is in this space that I learned the difference between doing and becoming.
So—who are you really, when no one is clapping? When the curtains close and the nameplate is gone?
Living authentically means showing up not as the role, but as the soul. It’s not easy in a culture that measures worth by productivity. But there’s a deep peace that comes with knowing your value is not negotiable.
You are more than titles. You are legacy, love, light. You are presence in a world that often only sees performance. If every role you ever played was taken from you, would you still know your worth?
That’s the heart of this journey—building a life so deeply rooted in truth, character, and faith that no stripping can unravel you.
Let your becoming be louder than your doing.
Let your identity be built on rock, not sand.
Let your life speak, even when your title doesn’t.
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