Does the Sword Come in Pink?

On identity, values, and remembering who you are.

By Sarah Plassman MSW, LISW-S

Sheesh! And Other Thoughts on Being Human

I was born in year of our Lord, 1980... something.

Let’s just say it was a very good year for shoulder pads, questionable bangs, and apparently naming baby girls Sarah. Sarah was one of the most popular girls' names at the time, which explains why there were approximately seventeen of us everywhere I went.

There was always another Sarah. Sarah P. Sarah M. Sarah who somehow got to just be “Sarah,” which frankly felt like an abuse of power.

I fit right in.

I also always knew my name meant princess.

And in good old 1980...something, princess meant exactly what you would expect: pink, dresses, jewelry, sparkly things, and possibly a tiara if the adults around you were sufficiently cooperative when your mom took you to Kmart.

I loved all of it.

Still do.

Sure, I went through the obligatory black phase around fourteen, because apparently every respectable teenage girl must briefly dress like she has experienced far more darkness than her upbringing can reasonably support.

But eventually I came home.

Pink is where it's at for me.

More Than a Princess

What I did not understand until much later was that there was more hiding inside my name than the version of “princess” I had grown up imagining.

Sarah is traditionally understood from the Hebrew as princess, noblewoman, or female ruler, related to sar, meaning prince, ruler, chief, or one with authority.

Which immediately made me think:

Sar... czar... Caesar... clearly I am descended from an empire.

Linguistically, no.

Emotionally, I remain committed to this interpretation.

Then, years ago, I found a footnote in my Bible that made me look at my name in an entirely different way. The note connected the imagery around sar with ruling, striving, wrestling, and fighting and offered this interpretation of Sarah: A Princess Who is a Warrior.

Well.

Now you have my attention.

Also, one important logistical question:

Does the sword come in pink?

Because if we are going to completely revise my childhood understanding of what being a princess means, I would at least like some continuity in the color palette.

To be clear, “warrior princess” is not the standard dictionary translation of Sarah. The traditional meaning is princess, noblewoman, or female ruler.

But that image stayed with me.

Maybe because somewhere inside of it, I recognized myself.

The Name I Grew Into

Growing up, I was cheerful, blonde, and a little ditzy.

I remain all three, although admittedly one of them now requires professional assistance and regular maintenance.

I liked pink. I liked dresses. I liked jewelry. I liked being silly and laughing. I liked to boss around my three younger siblings. All things that fit quite nicely with my childhood understanding of a princess.

But that was never the whole story.

I was also the oldest of four children, with three younger siblings who had physical disabilities. My parents divorced. We moved about every two years until I was twelve. There were other hard things too, but some material is best left between a girl and her own therapist.

Life required something from me.

I adapted. I helped. I learned. I kept going.

I was resilient before I knew resilience was a word people put on inspirational coffee mugs.

I was a warrior.

There was something incredibly empowering about finding that image inside my own name.

A princess who is a warrior.

Not because I suddenly became one.

Because I recognized one.

And that image has followed me into adulthood. I built a career. Then, apparently deciding I had not yet accumulated enough stress, I helped build and lead a therapy practice.

I lead people. I advocate. I make hard decisions. I stand up for things I believe matter. I wrestle with problems.

Sometimes metaphorically.

Sometimes with insurance companies, which may actually qualify as a full contact sport.

I am a boy mom. Enough said.

I have done things scared. I have done things unsure. I have walked into rooms where I did not feel particularly powerful and figured out how to use my voice anyway.

I have learned that courage rarely feels like the dramatic movie version while you are doing it. Most of the time it looks more like:

Well. I really don't want to do this.

And then doing it.

That princess warrior image became something I could return to when life was hard. When my confidence was shaken. When someone else's opinion of me got a little too loud. When I questioned whether I was capable.

It reminded me of something I think we all occasionally forget:

Who we are does not disappear just because we temporarily cannot feel it.

Who Told You Who You Were?

Identity is complicated because we do not develop it in isolation.

Long before most of us are old enough to thoughtfully decide who we are, messages start arriving.

Our families tell us who we are. Teachers tell us. Friends tell us. Culture tells us.

Society certainly has opinions.

You are smart. Difficult. Pretty. Too much. The responsible one. The sensitive one. The funny one. The strong one. The one who never needs anything.

Then come all the things we are told we should be: successful, attractive, agreeable, independent, accomplished, emotionally regulated, a good parent, a good partner, in excellent physical condition.

Some of those messages become part of us in beautiful ways.

You are loved. You are capable. Your voice matters. You can do hard things.

Keep those.

Others stick around long after they should have been returned to sender.

You're too sensitive.

Don't make trouble.

You always mess things up.

Keep everyone happy.

You're the strong one. You'll be fine.

And eventually, the people who originally said those things do not even have to be in the room anymore.

We learn the lines.

We repeat them ourselves.

The outside voice becomes an inside voice.

The Stories We Learn to Tell About Ourselves

This is something I see often in therapy. There can be a big difference between who we are and the story we have learned to tell about who we are.

Someone once called you selfish, so setting a boundary starts to feel like proof.

Someone needed you to be the responsible one, so needing help feels like failure.

Someone told you that you were too sensitive, so you learn to distrust your own feelings.

Someone underestimated you long enough that eventually you started helping them do it.

The message becomes the story.

And after we repeat a story long enough, it can begin to feel like a fact.

But not every belief we carry about ourselves belongs to us.

Some are old family roles. Some are survival strategies. Some are cultural expectations. Some came from people who were looking at us through the lens of their own wounds. Some were useful once and no longer fit.

And some are simply wrong.

Maybe your name does not come with a conveniently packaged metaphor involving crowns and weaponry.

But all of us have words, stories, values, beliefs, or truths that we return to when we need to remember ourselves.

Which leaves us with a bigger question:

Who am I underneath everything I have been told I am?

Remember Who You Are

Which brings me, naturally, to Mufasa.

Because apparently my psychological development has been heavily influenced by Disney, and I have made peace with that. I am also reminded of a line in the Lion King.

There is that moment in The Lion King when Mufasa tells Simba:

“Remember who you are.”

As a kid, I heard that as: Remember, Simba. You're the king.

As an adult, I hear something bigger.

Remember what you value.

Remember what you stand for.

Remember what you have already survived.

Remember the strength you had before this particular moment made you question whether you had any.

Remember that another person's opinion of you is information, not identity.

Remember that failure is something that happened, not your new first name.

Because hard seasons have a way of making us forget.

Fear gets loud. Rejection gets loud. Failure gets loud. Other people's voices get loud.

And sometimes our own inner critic somehow finds a microphone and cranks it up to eleven.

That is when we may need to stop and ask:

What do I value?

What do I want to embody here?

What have I already learned about myself?

Which voices belong to me, and which ones have I simply been carrying?

Who do I want to remember that I am?

Sometimes we really are lost. Life gets hard, confidence gets shaken, and for a while we may genuinely have no idea which way is forward.

That is when remembering can become grounding: who we are, who we want to be, what we value, what we believe and, for me, who God has told me I am.

Thoughts and feelings matter. But they can also get awfully loud when we are scared, hurt, rejected, or uncertain.

Neither one has to be the only thing holding the compass.

Sometimes the steadier questions are:

What do I value even though this hurts?

Who do I want to be even though I am scared?

What choice moves me toward the person I want to become?

That is identity.

That is values.

That is remembering.

It may not tell us how the whole story ends, but it can ground our feet and help us take the next step forward.

When You Have Lost Track of Who You Are

Maybe you have spent years becoming who other people needed you to be. Maybe a relationship, loss, painful experience, or life transition has shaken the way you see yourself. Maybe some of the messages you have carried for years are beginning to feel less like truth and more like something you inherited.

Therapy can be a place to quiet some of that noise and get curious about what is actually yours.

At Agape Counseling Center, our therapists can help you explore identity, self worth, relationships, anxiety, life transitions, and the experiences that may have shaped the way you see yourself.

Not because therapy hands you a new identity.

Sometimes it simply gives you enough room to hear your own voice again.

For me, I still come back to that image I found years ago in a Bible footnote.

A princess who is a warrior.

A woman who can lead, protect, wrestle with hard things, and do what needs to be done even when confidence does not arrive first.

And yes.

She can do all of that in pink.

Obviously.

So this one is for all the Sarahs.

And everyone who may be a little Sarah at heart.

When life shakes you, when someone else's voice gets louder than your own, or when you forget what you are capable of, maybe you do not need to become someone entirely new.

Maybe sometimes you just need to remember.

Remember what you value.

Remember what you have survived.

Remember what you stand for.

Remember who you are.

Straighten the crown.

We've got things to do.

Sheesh.

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Want to Explore Your Own Values?

If you are not quite sure what your core values are, Brené Brown offers a free Living Into Our Values exercise designed to help people identify the values that matter most to them and consider how those values show up in everyday life.

And if your first response to a long list of values is:

Well... all of them?

Fair.

Start with Brené Brown's Living Into Our Values Exercise.

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About the Author

Sarah Plassman, MSW, LISW-S, is a therapist and owner of Agape Counseling Center in Centerville, Ohio, and the author of Sheesh! And Other Thoughts on Being Human. Being a therapist has shaped the way she sees people, relationships, pain, joy, growth, and all the complicated things we carry with us. Through her writing, Sarah shares some of what she has learned from years in the therapy room, her own life, and simply paying attention to what it means to be human, with clinical insight, compassion, curiosity, and usually a little humor.

Because apparently, if she goes too long without saying something weird, she starts becoming suspiciously well adjusted, and nobody wants that.

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Educational Disclaimer

This article is intended for educational and informational purposes only and is not a substitute for individualized mental health assessment, diagnosis, treatment, or professional advice. The therapeutic relationship and appropriate treatment approach will vary based on each person's needs and circumstances.