We give ourselves titles at a very early age, and they often stick. Much like a screenwriter in the early stages of crafting a script, we need a catchy title to capture attention and convey a sense of purpose. A title is essential—a hook that draws people in. In the world of film, it’s the studio executives who decide whether a script will live or die. Imagine an action movie with animals—its working title might be Die Hard in a Zoo. It immediately establishes an identity and conveys worth. Similarly, we give ourselves working titles for our early stories, titles that reflect our worth in our quest for love, safety, and our parents’ approval.

Life, in its very early stages, can be both exciting and frightening. By the time we are four years old, we learn some hard truths: that we are separate from our mother, that we can be hurt, and that we deeply desire love, security, and belonging. Before we even understand what all of this means, we already know how it feels.

Just as an infant reaches for eye contact, smiles, and feels connected, so too does the infant experience being unnoticed by a parent. This is the start of our search, as we try to find our worth in a world we barely understand. What will get the attention we seek? The smile we want? The approval we crave? Our primal need for connection must be met, and we will go to great lengths to find it.

In those early moments of life, we experiment and discover what works to fill the void and calm our fears. Sometimes, we are met with praise, laughter, or joy. When that happens, we experience an elation that locks in an imprint of who were at the moment . We learn it then and try to replicate it.

I remember being four years old when my father welded up a small trailer for my tricycle. We still lived in the city, and I was eager to try it out. As I rode the tricycle, the trailer followed behind me. Then, with one careful attempt, I backed the trailer down the narrow walkway. I remember the thrill of figuring out how to maneuver the handlebars in reverse, a skill that felt instinctive. My father was ecstatic. “Look at that! He can back it up perfectly. That’s really hard to do!” At that moment, I felt a deep sense of pride and quickly claimed a new identity: “natural driver with spatial awareness.”

We all do this in one way or another. We absorb what others reflect back to us—both positive and negative—and use it to define ourselves, to survive and thrive. Maybe we were labeled the difficult child, the argumentative one, the kind or the artistic one. As children, our minds are malleable, and these labels feel like fundamental truths, facts about us.

These early titles become the foundation for the adult identity that follows.

At eight years old, living on an acreage we had just moved to, I was driving tractors, trucks, and stick shifts, with a new title I had claimed: “heavy equipment operator.” One day, my father asked me to back the truck up to the shop. I was too short to reach the clutch and brake and still see out the windows, but I managed. The clutch pedal was slippery, and I accidentally let the truck lunge into the shop wall, leaving a hole.

I watched from the kitchen window with my mother as my father fixed the damage. He didn’t say a word, but in my eight-year-old brain, his stern posture shouted disappointment. That moment reinforced a profound need that I must do better.

Our early self-appointed titles follow us throughout life, shaping the roles we play, the approval we seek, the domains we protect, and the justifications we apply. The need to claim and hold onto a title, to validate our identity, often runs deep. It can be both comical and profoundly familiar.

In Deep Focus Coaching, this is one of the areas we explore—how long-held titles shape our lives today. We investigate what we feared then and how the possibly outdated four-year-old solutions may not remain as the primary approaches we can find to get our needs met today.

At a certain point, it may become valuable to ask: Are these titles still serving me? Do I still need to be the funny one? The strong one? The perfect one? Do I still believe I need to continue to strive for perfection?

There’s a scene in Addams Family Values where Uncle Fester, played by Christopher Lloyd, is at a dance with Debbie the nanny, whom he desperately wants to impress. He looks for any way to catch her attention and, in a moment of desperation, shoves breadsticks up his nose. She gives a fleeting smile, and he takes that as a sign of success. From then on, every time she glances at him, he stumbles for the breadsticks, hoping to continue to score points.

Just as Die Hard in a Zoo may have once captured the excitement of action and adventure you wanted to convey, it may no longer align with the story you want to tell today. Perhaps there’s a new title waiting to be claimed—one that resonates with who you are now.