What Happens When You Outgrow the Adventures that Once Defined You?

Ruby used to define herself as an adventurer, but a recent encounter caused her to stop and reflect on whether she still wants to wear that title.

‘Let me introduce you to my friend, she’s so adventurous! She’s done so many crazy things!’

They mean well, this friend who’s introducing you. They’re building bridges, they’re pumping up your tyres, they’re trying to offer a baton for this stranger they’re introducing you to, to pick up and run with.

And so they do.

‘Awesome! Great to meet you! What have you got coming up?’

And you look at them, and they look at you. And you blink, slowly. Because the truth is, you’ve got nothing. No trips planned. You’re just not that interested in anything worth bragging about anymore.

But you want to uphold the identity, you want to keep it going. Because there’s social currency in it, right? You don’t want to be perceived as boring, as someone who’s ‘settling down’ and buckling to the script of ‘the white picket fence’.

So you stammer, you say something, you deflect. The conversation continues.

And it’s no big deal, really. The person you’ve met does not care. But what’s this inner conversation you’re having? Why does it feel a bit icky?

An identity crisis isn’t uncommon for me. I love to categorise myself into lots of little boxes, with neat labels like Adventurous. Ambitious. Creative. Often, they overflow and collapse under the pressure of all that I try to fill them with.

For those of us who grew up online, social media has encouraged this. We’ve been given access to platforms that profit from the way in which we line up our boxes and display them to the world. Strava stats. Curated Instagram feeds. MySpace playlists. Many of us have been figuring out who we are publicly, in all sorts of tiny corners of the internet, for decades.

For the first 20 years of my life, I was a devoted Christian. It was my entire identity, and I held a lot of pride in that. When I left the religion, it disrupted almost every area of my life. How was I to relate to my peers? How would they judge my change in behaviour? Who was I if not this?

I’ve had conversations with others who’ve had a similar crisis of identity. Former athletes who had to step back due to a permanent injury. Ambitious corporate ladder types who suffered burnout and entered a new industry at the bottom of the food chain. Those who move into a house after spending four years in a van. It happens to us all. This readjustment of the self. Over and over.

Adventure was one of my boxes. And at some point, adventure became synonymous with escalation. It didn’t just have to be bigger, it had to be faster. I didn’t just need gear that was functional; I needed gear that was the best. The route needed to be further away, more niche, somewhere only the ‘locals’ knew about.

Eventually, I took that overflowing box off the shelf, ripped off the label, and said, ‘I don’t actually like you anymore!’ And I dumped it on the floor.

Of course, I still head outside. And yes, I still head out on Big Trips and do Hard Things. But my goodness, disentangling myself from it as a form of identity? Glorious.

On one hand, we should try and escape these binary notions of identity, allowing more flexibility within our own selves. Get rid of all the boxes, lay everything out in a disorganised manner. Pick and choose and tumble over likes and dislikes and wants and needs! It’s easier said than done, particularly for those of us who are neurodivergent, and for those, like me, who are ushering around a fragile ego in an often unforgiving world.

One of the things I am most grateful for, in all of the ways my identity shifts and changes, is my friendships. I look at all the friends I adventure with, and I’m looking at the group chats, and I’m still there. We’re still mates. They don’t care about the size of the boxes and how I have labelled them. It doesn’t cross their mind. I think they just like being my friend regardless, and that’s the most comforting thing of all.

More Ponderings From the Bush

• Aren’t You Scared, Camping On Your Own?
• An Ode to Our Adventurous Friends
• Why I’m Trying to Walk More Slowly
• Nature is the Backdrop to Our Love Stories