The world loves its labels. From the moment we take our first breath, identities are placed upon us—names, genders, roles, expectations. They tell us who we are and who we should be. As we grow, these labels multiply, clustering around us like vines, dictating the ways we move through the world. Sometimes, we choose these labels for ourselves, clutching at them like life rafts. Other times, they are thrust upon us, unwelcome and suffocating. And yet, at some point, we must ask: Who am I when I strip all of this away? Who am I without the box?

This question has followed me through every phase of my life, every shift and change in my identity. There’s a temptation to believe that we are fixed, that who we are is a set thing, static and permanent. But I don’t buy into that. I believe humans are ever-evolving, malleable creatures shaped by our experiences and the world around us. To me, there’s no ultimate destination, no single identity that encompasses the fullness of who we are. We’re constantly changing, growing, shedding old selves to make room for the new. And yet, labels threaten to stifle this natural evolution.

For years, I called myself a powerlifter. The label felt right—I was in the gym every day, squatting, benching, and deadlifting with a singular focus. The gym wasn’t just a hobby; it was my identity. But over time, my body began to rebel. My knees ached, my joints screamed, and injuries piled up. I pushed through the pain, convinced that if I stopped, I’d lose not just the gains I had worked so hard for, but a core part of who I was. Who was I if not a powerlifter? What had those years of dedication been for?

Eventually, the toll on my body became too great. I had to stop. And in that stillness, the label that once felt like a badge of honor turned on me. Without powerlifting, I felt unmoored, lost. The identity I had clung to so tightly had become a prison, and when it was stripped away, I didn’t know who I was anymore. That’s the danger of labels—they give us something to hold onto, but they also hold us back. They convince us that we are only this or that, when the truth is we are so much more.

The same struggle arose when I began calling myself a writer. Writing is one of my great loves—it allows me to process the world, to reflect, to create. But even that label, one that feels true to my core, began to feel restrictive. What about the days when I didn’t write? What about the mornings when I picked up a marker instead, or spent hours creating art in a different medium? Was I still a writer, or was I something else entirely?

The pressure of the label weighed on me, demanding I produce, that I prove my worth as a writer through output, through tangible results. But art, in any form, doesn’t work like that. It ebbs and flows. It resists definition.

So, I began to think differently. Instead of calling myself a writer or an artist or a philosopher, I started calling myself a creative. The term feels expansive, fluid. It gives me room to explore, to change, to grow without the weight of expectation. As a creative, I can write today, paint tomorrow, and philosophize the next. I can be all of these things or none of them. The label doesn’t define me—it simply gives me space to be.

This isn’t just about the labels we give ourselves, though. It’s also about the labels others place on us. People make assumptions all the time. They look at me—my long hair, my jewelry, my gauges—and decide who I am before I’ve said a word. When I tell them I’m in graduate school, studying public administration, they’re surprised. When I share that I graduated summa cum laude in philosophy, they don’t know what to make of it. The dissonance between how I present and who I am frustrates them, but to me, it’s a reminder: I am more than how I look. I am more than what people expect.

And yet, even as I resist these external labels, I know how easy it is to fall into the trap of internalizing them. It’s a quiet kind of rebellion to push back, to insist on being more than what society tells us we should be. It’s an act of defiance to reject the narratives written for us and write our own instead. But it’s necessary. It’s vital. Because every act of authenticity is an act of rebellion. Every time we refuse to be boxed in, we reclaim a piece of ourselves.

This is especially important in a world that thrives on categorization. Society loves to divide us into demographics, to group us by race, gender, class, profession. As a Hispanic man, I feel this acutely. Assumptions are made about me before I open my mouth, and I know I’m not alone in this. W.E.B. Du Bois wrote about the “double consciousness” of Black Americans—the constant tension between how one sees oneself and how one is seen by society. While his words were rooted in a specific experience, the idea resonates across marginalized identities. To exist authentically is to live in resistance.

But it’s not just about resisting societal expectations. It’s about resisting the urge to box ourselves in, too. It’s about reminding ourselves that we are more than any single identity, any single role. We are vast, complex, multifaceted beings. We are constantly becoming.

So, I’ve decided to let go of the labels. I’m not a writer. I’m not a philosopher. I’m not a powerlifter, an artist, or a hippie. I’m just Aldo. And Aldo is ever-changing, ever-growing, ever-learning. My identity isn’t fixed, and it isn’t something you can summarize in a single word or phrase. It’s bigger than that. It’s all the things I’ve been and all the things I’ll become.

The world doesn’t need more categories or demographics or labels. It needs individuals. It needs authenticity. It needs people willing to shed the boxes and embrace the fullness of their humanity. That’s the rebellion I choose: to be fully, unapologetically myself. And in doing so, I hope to inspire others to do the same.

The world doesn’t need labels. It needs you.