A reflection on identity, purpose, and the spaces between work and self.
Sometimes the path back to yourself runs through the places you helped build.
Have you ever noticed that when you introduce yourself to someone, almost always within the first few minutes, you are asked, “What do you do?” Most of us instinctively answer with our occupation. For me, that answer was always my title, which changed depending on the year or decade, followed by “with the City of Greensboro.”
For years, I would tell my wife that no one really wanted to talk to me; they only wanted to talk about what the City could do for them or what was happening at the City. I would go on about how no one actually knew anything about me, that they only saw me as “the City.”
At dinner parties, events, birthdays, or even funerals, it did not matter where I was. People who knew me would offer a quick greeting and immediately get down to business. Even when meeting someone for the first time, as soon as I introduced myself and mentioned my occupation, they would dive right into conversation about City matters as soon as the “nice to meet you” ended.
The truth is, for many years, I secretly loved having something to talk about that was comfortable and gave me confidence. I am not social by nature, and that work identity provided a shield I could stand behind. At some point, I was not even sure who I was beyond the job. What I did for a living reflected my passion and beliefs, so using it to create a comfortable space for conversation made sense.
When I did steer the conversation elsewhere, my favorite topic was my sons. Both Caleb and Josh carry distinct sides of my personality, giving me an endless supply of stories to share. The pride I have in them always brought smiles and reassuring reactions from others. Yet somehow, it never took long for the discussion to circle back to work.
I also loved talking about my wife, Cecelia, a leader in our community, a true beacon of inspiration, and someone who humors my constant fanboy behavior. I would proudly boast about her latest efforts in almost every setting. But even then, after people finished praising her accomplishments, they would often end with, “So, about the City…”
As time went on, I began to fear what might happen if I no longer had that identity. Who would I be to others? What would I talk about? I knew I had things to share, my faith, my family, my hopes, and my interests, all meaningful topics depending on the audience.
Sometimes I wondered if it was my fault. I always saw small talk as meaningless chatter to fill silence. I respected others too much to recite sports scores or discuss the weather. Maybe my constant promotion of my beloved City created a platform for others to channel their curiosity about it through me. Work gave me purpose, and I have always been purpose-driven, so it naturally seeped into every part of my life.
I often convinced myself that by representing my work so completely, I was providing a service to my community. That was a good thing, right? I believed in what I was doing. I welcomed criticism, appreciated praise, and loved spreading good news about things to come. It was not wrong, and no one seemed to mind.
When I was a little boy, I was extremely shy. I often bottled up my desires for fear of failure. But when you bottle something up, it eventually leaks out. My feelings were no different. I remember a day when my mother saw me tap dancing after watching Jerry Lewis on television. She waited until her friends were over and asked me to perform. I always blushed and shied away, except for one day when her encouragement broke through my fear. I danced like I had been doing it all my life. The reaction was incredible, applause, cheers, smiles. It felt wonderful. But afterward, I convinced myself I could never repeat it and never danced again. Instead, I learned to distract and redirect attention until people stopped asking.
Work was similar. I would pour my passion into a project, one initiative at a time, and then move on, convincing myself I could not repeat the performance. The reactions to my work made me feel accepted, so I clung to those conversations like a security blanket. As the years went on, a little voice in my head whispered that one day this work would be behind me and I would have to tap dance again.
I wondered if that was what I projected in conversation, someone holding tightly to what felt safe because it gave him confidence. Maybe it was my fault that work was all anyone wanted to discuss. Maybe I was afraid to step into a space that felt less certain.
Whatever the case, I knew the day was coming when that blanket would be taken away. As it loomed like a cloud, I searched for a way to hold onto my identity.
On July 1, 2025, I woke up and realized I was no longer Chris Wilson with the City of Greensboro. I was simply Christian Alexander Wilson again. No blanket. A dad, a husband, a hiker, an occasional blogger, a science fiction and superhero fan, a decent basketball shooter from outside the perimeter, and someone who loves to photograph wildlife and landscapes. For all the accolades and accomplishments of my professional life, I knew that the version of me most people never knew was what remained, and what I had to offer in conversation and in life.
I remember those first few outings feeling awkward, as people still wanted to talk about the City. Another easy topic was “retirement,” which I quickly corrected once I found a new opportunity to engage in meaningful work again.
At times, it made me sad and even frustrated. It left me questioning who I really was. In those moments, I would go for a hike. One day, I just kept walking. Twenty miles later, I began to find clarity. I was hiking twenty miles, passing places I had touched in some way, each with a story I could tell. Along the way, I saw friends who honked their horns or rolled down their windows to shout encouragement. Even the sounds and smells of the journey reminded me of projects and efforts that filled me with pride. I took pictures, reflected on memories, and later wrote about what I had experienced. And then it hit me.
Those sights, memories, and feelings were mine. They had been shaped through my work, but they were still part of me. They came from who I am, not just what I did. I had never allowed myself to see that those experiences were not only the City’s efforts; they were my own. Yes, I did them as part of my job, but I also did them because that is who I am.
And if that is part of who I am, then those memories, and the moments I will have forging ahead in community work, will not be a shy person’s shield but meaningful topics of conversation that truly reflect who I am.
Christian A. Wilson
Conversations with Chris 