Whichever Hat I'm Wearing...

This morning, I had a cowboy hat consultation. Which is exactly the kind of moment that makes me revisit how I got here and why this sentence makes sense in my life and probably not everyone else’s. 😂 

But there we were — talking through hat shapes and Western wear and what works for the purpose today versus what worked then - when we wore them all the time. As the conversation lingered in my mind longer than the text thread, the thoughts turned into something deeper. A recognition of a former part of myself. 

This conversation was superficially about cowboy hats... but it became about identity and wanting to belong. For me, it was about the strange familiarity of knowing something from an older version of myself and discovering that she is still in there.

Every once in a while, I pull my Lucchese boots out of the closet and put on a cowgirl hat and my old Western things, and something shifts. I do not feel like I am dressing up. It feels more like a memory. 

There was a season when this was not just an outfit for the rodeo or concert... There was a season when I didn't have to put much effort into looking the part. It was simply what we wore. Cutting  horses and show weekends were woven into the rhythm of our lives. Peter was the cutter. I was the wife doing the many things at home and beyond that made that particular “hobby” possible. But on most weekends, we were in an arena, loping, moving cattle, getting dusty and dirty while in rhinestone-studded outfits. 

I put hobby in quotes for a reason. We didn't make money - we spent it! And we had day jobs... but it was more than a hobby - it was a lifestyle, and it was part of who we were. 

We knew the people. We knew the language. We knew the clothes. We knew the culture.

We had the gold buckles, exotic skin boots, and expensive show hats. Rhinestones and rubies and gold were the norm and were worn with Wrangler jeans because it was still work inside of the arena. We knew what happened in the show pen, and we knew what happened after.

Sometimes after the horses were settled, we would all end up at a local bar somewhere with our fellow cutters, still wearing the evidence of the world where we had spent the day.

One of my favorite memories from that season happened on a night just like that.

I was sitting with a friend of mine, a cutter herself, and someone approached us with that familiar kind of flirtatious confidence that immediately assumed more than it knew.

At some point, he suggested my friend was not a “real cowgirl.” That we were just dressed for the part. Now, I need you to understand something. My friend was absolutely not just dressed for the part. She was the part. And without missing a beat, she looked at him and said,

“I’ll betchu a sniff off the bottom of my boot I am.”

Then she kicked her boot back just enough that he had to move, picked up her drink, nodded to me, and walked away. And I did what any supportive friend in that moment should do: I tipped my hat with a no-eye-contact smirk, picked up my drink, and followed her.  The guys we were with chuckled, embarrassed for the poor souls who had taken their shot... and missed. Honestly, in my memory, it plays like a movie scene.

Every time I think about dressing Western, I think about that moment.

Not because it was rude or dramatic. But because she was so confident in who she was in that moment. There was no need to prove what was already true. We knew who we were in that world.

These days, our calendar looks a whole lot more like wrestling mats than cutting pens and church pews, more than stadiums.... The cattle are gone. There are sheep in the pasture now because, frankly, they are cheaper, and we can eat them. 
My husband is a cowboy - through and through.... But these last few years, watching him wrangle kids on wrestling mats more than sort cattle in an arena, I have laughed and thought often...

Once a cutter, always a cutter...... Cows optional.

But the horses are still here and so are the boots. 

And apparently, so is the girl... that version of myself. That is the funny thing about identity. There have been so many earthly identities before then, since then, and alongside it and now.

Daughter/Sister.
Clemson Tiger.
Teacher.
Cutter’s wife.
Mom.
Wrestling mom.
Coach's wife.
Youth leader.
Writer.
Photographer.
Homesteader.
Creator.

Some seasons become enormous for a while and then grow quiet.

Others arrive that you never anticipated.

Some identities are put on like boots you wore every day for years.

Some are handed to you before you feel ready.

Some you grow into. Some you grow out of. 

Some you grieve when they shift.

Some you forget were ever part of you until you open a closet, pull something out, and remember.

And while all of them are true and real... none of them is the anchor of my identity. 

Scripture says:

“For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.”
— Colossians 3:3

Hidden with Christ. Not lost. Not erased. Not replaced by every new title life gives us.

Hidden. Kept. Anchored somewhere deeper than seasons, roles, clothes, hobbies, ministries, children’s ages, or what fills the calendar this year.

Our roles change. 

Our seasons change.

But our deepest identity does not have to be reconstructed every time life shifts, because it was never ultimately located in those things. It is hidden in Christ. That gives me a lot of comfort. Because I have loved many seasons of my life deeply.

But if I build my whole identity on any one of those things, then every shift starts to feel like losing myself. The continuation of that scripture in Colossians specifically says that the old self should be put away. That doesn't erase the legitimacy of the previous seasons; it just holds them in their rightful place. The shift in seasons is less about losing myself and more about finding who God is shaping me to be. Moving forward does not mean that season did not matter.

If you consider Joseph’s life and take a freeze frame of the day he sat at the bottom of a well, you see betrayal. You see loss. You see confusion. You see a young man whose life looks like it has gone terribly off course. But the well was not the whole story. And the palace was not disconnected from the well. Had Joseph not been thrown into the well, he would not have been positioned in the palace many seasons later, where God used him to save a nation. His identity as the annoying and envied little brother is not erased just because he took on a new identity later in life. Some seasons do not look like where we are ultimately going, but they still shape who we are becoming. 

Every season does not reflect the fullness of where He is taking me. But because He was refining me, shaping me, teaching me, and continuing His work in me through all of it, every season has a part that stays with me. 

Philippians says:

“He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 1:6

Life is not a one-season process. It is a lifetime of being shaped. A lifetime of being refined.

A lifetime of learning which parts of our story were meant to stay as memories, which parts still serve us, which parts need surrendering, and which parts God intends to redeem for His glory.

Scripture says:

“Continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill His good purpose.”

— Philippians 2:12–13

There will be a time when the hat does not fit the same way, or the role does not take up as much room, or the thing that once defined your calendar becomes more of a memory than a lifestyle. What happens when you know that season was real, but it is not the whole of who you are? Our identity must have an anchoring point. 

Hebrews says:

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”
— Hebrews 13:8

I am not. I wasn't designed to remain the same. I change. My seasons change. My responsibilities change. My children grow. My clothes change. My roles change. My calendar changes. My hair changes, and apparently so does my ability to pull off a western look without some effort... and my desire to try to do so.   

But Jesus does not change.

He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

That means He was Lord in the cutting pen.

He is Lord in the sheep pen.

He was Lord in the Death Valley bleachers.

He is Lord in the Wildcat Wrestler-mom bleachers.

He was Lord in the office.

He is Lord in the farmhouse. 

AND He will be Lord in whatever comes next.

If my life is hidden with Him, then I do not have to panic every time life asks me to become familiar with a new version of myself.

I can remember who I have been with gratitude.

I can walk into who I am becoming with peace.

I can trust who He is making me with open hands. 

We learn from each season. We can even revisit them from time to time. Some we are glad are over, and others we hope never end. But all help to shape who we are becoming... and never entirely leave us. Sometimes all it takes is pulling on those old boots and putting on that hat that has become more of a decoration hanging from the moose rack above the bed to remember a little piece of who we are, where we have been, and where we are going.

What season, role, or old version of yourself has God used to shape you — and how can you remember it with gratitude while staying anchored in who you are in Christ?

Lord, thank You for every season You have used to shape me. Thank You for the parts of my story that still make me smile, the roles that taught me, and the memories that remind me of who I have been. Help me hold those things with gratitude, but not build my identity on them. Keep me anchored in Christ, steady through change, and willing to walk faithfully in this season and into whatever season comes next. Amen

Until next time, keep following the Plott, and I will be praying for us all. 💛