Four months ago, I was in the middle of a stubborn and severe writer’s block. When this happens, I turn to the cobweb-ridden vault of miscellaneous papers in my Zotero. These are the articles I tuck away with a swift click, their titles promising interesting reads that I tell myself I’ll get to “later”. Always later. I won’t share the proportion of works that actually see the light of day because one could argue that it’s statistically insignificant, but on this particular day, I was feeling hopeful that braving the back rooms would jumpstart my stalled creativity.
And so I scrolled through my “misc.” folder, a hodgepodge of academic odds and ends, and eventually landed on Identity and Community1 by Sean Sayers. What started as a casual scan quickly turned into an earnest read of the discussion section, and then surprisingly, a thorough examination of the entire piece. Interested by his ideas, I opened a blank Google doc and began summarizing Sayers’ main points. I laid each important argument out in the order of which he presented it and supplemented each point with what I believed to be the most crucial takeaways of his analysis.
It was a process, but I worked deftly and enthusiastically. When I was done, I read my outline, read it again, and stared blankly at my computer screen. What now?
Staring back at me was my magnum opus for nerds, but now I had no idea what to do. How was I going to turn these exam notes into an engaging, creative piece of writing that people wanted to read? I am not naive enough to assume that the general public would be enraptured over my opinions on world renowned philosophy professor’s teachings on the dialectic of community and identity. Who would care about what I, someone with no credentials or accolades, had to say about an idea that wasn’t even mine?
And so I closed out the tab and returned to my more pressing tasks with consequential due dates. This outline sat in the catacombs of my google docs for the next two months, occasionally making a guest appearance when I would open it, read it, try to figure out what to do, and then close it again out of frustration. It wasn’t until almost two months later, sitting here now, that I felt a weak flicker of inspiration.
As I attempt to make sense of my thoughts, I find myself reflecting on this particular period of time. Recalling the last year or so is sometimes difficult. I often joke to my friends that I “blacked out” last semester and the semester before due to stress. And maybe there is some truth to that statement—perhaps there is a kind of cortisol induced amnesia that affects the memory structures in our frontal lobes.
But I have since then realized that my understanding of this seemingly innocuous stress-induced haze extends beyond clouded memories; it fundamentally alters how I, and many others, navigate our inner selves.When things get hard, it becomes difficult to reach out to support systems, and instead, an isolating, self-fulfilling cycle of negativity ensues. It’s like trying to untangle five years worth of tarnished Forever 21 necklaces. You’re overconfident at first, but as you tug at one corroded chain knot, three more seem to form. You think you come up with a solution when you decide to zero in on one knot but the chain keeps slipping out of your too big, too bulky fingers. And so in the end, all you’re left with is an even bigger mess and sore nail beds.
Sordid personal details aside, I call this a self-actualizing cycle of brutalization. A combination of factors has helped me grapple with this, but that is not the purpose of this piece. The point of this is to not for me to divulge some kind of inspirational, self-help epiphany. The main takeaway is that only now, four months later, am I able to come to terms with all the ugly, difficult moments that I tried to convince myself I forgot. It is only four months later that I can see the frost is starting to melt after saying I wasn’t cold when my lips were blue and my fingers were blackened.
This personal journey of self-reflection and gradual healing brings me back to Professor Sayers and his concept of the “dialectic of identity and community”—a co constitutive relationship between the individual and the community around them. He describes a process of identity formation that is fundamentally embedded in the social relations we, ourselves, are embedded in. In simpler terms, our identities are the result of our social circumstances, but if we take a step inward, Sayers also recognizes our own roles in creating our own identities.
Post self-reflection, I can now observe how this process has played out in my own life. My struggle with self-doubt and isolation was not just a personal battle—it was also a reflection of the broader external pressures and expectations I’ve internalized. At the same time, my gradual process of healing and self-discovery has involved both internal reflection and re-engagement with the important people in my personal life. This interplay between my inner self and my social environment has been crucial in reshaping my identity and perspective.
For this individual, agentic part of the narrative creation process to take place, Sayers argues that an adequate degree of time and emotional and/or mental space is needed for critical self-reflection. My own experience bears this out. It took months of distance from my most stressful period before I could even face the monstrous hairball of brass and nickel.
This might not seem particularly groundbreaking. All of the work social scientists do can somehow be reasoned or related back towards this idea of “identity”, a broad, ubiquitously understood and encompassing term. I have personally always thought of identity as a foundational yet rudimentary sociocultural concept. By reflecting on my own experiences, however, I’ve come to realize that I have underestimated the profound personal impact and intricate nature of this process. What once seemed like an academic concept on paper has revealed itself as a powerful force shaping my own life and self-understanding.
Early sociologists like Durkheim adopted an “absolutistic” view of the relationship between man and society—they assumed that people were almost entirely shaped by external forces. It was widely assumed that this external, changeless and timeless, could be studied by means of methods and techniques utilizing scientific categories established in advance. However, beginning in the 60s and 70s, a body of criticism emerged—existential sociology—concerned with the position of man in the social world, considers theory and life to have an intimate and unavoidable connection (Manning 1973)2.
The field of sociological existentialism deals with the individual application of these broader social concepts. It emphasizes the autonomy of human emotions and experiences within the larger social framework. This approach suggests that our social environment is not a static, external force, but rather a dynamic system shaped by constant interactions. It’s a perspective that views society as a living, breathing entity, continuously reshaped by the interplay between its various components.
Reflecting on Sayers’ work through this lens, I’ve come to appreciate the delicate balance between individual agency and social influence in shaping our identities. It’s a constant, inexorable dialogue between our inner selves and the world around us, a dialogue that shapes not only who we are but also who we might become. So while recalling the past year four months ago would have been difficult, recalling the past year now is less so. Now, however, slowly but surely, the pieces are coming together. Not to form a vignette, per se—rather, a kind of moving picture. Instead of recalling past seasons, I can now watch how the seasons change.
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