Your integrity is calling you home

Before I tell you a story about finding belonging and holding onto one’s true self in life, I wanted to share a photo taken by Henry, my morning walking and fishing buddy. Apparently, last week’s photo of the Cliff Walk didn't look 'cliffy' enough. So here's an action shot of yours truly with her faithful companion clambering on the rocks. There's something about these rugged edges that reminds me of the tops of mountains in the Adirondacks. Imagine if the water were gone, this could be the summit of Mount Marcy. Plus, these coastal rocks have weathered countless storms reminding me of the “standing firm amidst chaos” theme at a recent support group meeting at the Seamen’s Church Institute in Newport.

When I was five, my mother had me re-baptized—alongside my baby brothers.

My first baptism happened in Lauenen, a mountain village in the Swiss Alps, in the same little church that had baptized my ancestors and married my parents. This little 16th-century church is made of stone and wood and sits on a knoll surrounded by peaks. My mother wore a beautiful white gown and veil. Her long brown hair was styled in a chignon. In a village of farmer women in plain cotton dresses, she looked glamorous. My American family flew over from Chicago and New York for the occasion. As the church bell rang, mountain guides raised their icepicks in an arch as the newlyweds walked beneath them. It was a union of love, joy, and tradition, even though they came from entirely different worlds.

And then, it was rewritten.

A few years later, my mother remarried—this time, into aristocracy. Her new husband’s lineage went back to Montesquieu and William the Conqueror. My baby brothers were born into the story of castles and coats of arms. I was folded in—awkwardly, unevenly.

Nevertheless, I was re-baptized with them, and in school, mom enrolled all three of us under the same name, my stepfather’s name. It was simpler. She wanted me to feel like I belonged to this new family.

My stepfather even offered to adopt me but mom said, “Why? She has a perfectly good father.”

And I did.

Until I didn’t.

My father died in an avalanche shortly after. Being five, I didn’t really understand what that meant, but feelings of abandonment and missing him grew with each passing year.

I was around eight or nine when mom told me what my real last name was—my father’s name. The name I was born with.

By this time, I was aching for him. His name wasn’t illustrious. It wasn’t aristocratic. But it felt sacred. I knew that it was good and pure, like the mountain meadows and streams. That name felt true in a way nothing else did.

So I told my teacher, a nun at the Monegasque school:

“Actually,” I said, “Oehrli is my real name.”

She frowned.

“That’s not your name,” she said. “Don’t make up stories.”

Perhaps, she felt my stepfather’s name was more French, more impressive, more acceptable. Why would anyone opt for another name? I imagine her thinking, 'This child wants to trade a noble French name for something that sounds like a Swiss dairy product? Sacré bleu!'

This was my first encounter with what I would later recognize as a pattern - the expectation to present a certain image, to fit in at all cost. It was a lesson that would repeat itself in different ways later in life.

As I grew older, I understood the primary expectation for girls like me: marry well.

For my mother’s family: marry someone with lineage and assets. “Birds of a feather stick together,” I have often heard.

For my father’s family—my Swiss grandparents who were working-class people and who balked at my going to college:

“What do you want to be? A professor? Marry a nice Swiss man with thirty cows,” my grandfather told me.

Two different worlds with the same message: a woman's worth depends on who she marries.

And for a while, it looked like my mother’s family might get its way. Throughout my teenage years, I harbored a deep crush. He was kind, handsome, super smart, and very elegant. He represented the best version of the life I was being groomed for. I had already devoured Gone with the Wind, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and every Georgette Heyer novel I could find. I had steeped myself in brooding men, tortured love, and women whose virtue was tested by inheritance, madness, or war.

The fantasy collapsed. It turns out he wasn’t into me and never would be.

I was adrift.

I began to question everything. If that future wasn't meant for me, what was? Why was I expected to wait for someone to choose me rather than building something of my own?

That was my moment of rebellion. It wasn’t loud or theatrical. It started quietly—with work.

I decided I would earn my own money. And not just anywhere—I wanted to work at a real job that mattered. I wanted to contribute, to be taken seriously, to matter beyond my ability to marry well.

I rejected the idea that my identity should be shaped by someone else choosing me. Or caring for me. I wanted to shape it myself.

Catherine Graham and Margaret Thatcher became figures for me. These were women who wrote history. I loved the image of Thatcher drinking Scotch with heads of state in one room, her feet casually propped up on the coffee table, while the other wives were relegated to another living room discussing recipes and fashion. There she was, glass in hand, shoes off, completely comfortable in her authority, debating world affairs while breaking every unspoken rule about where a woman 'belonged' and how she should behave.

I took jobs that challenged me. I worked at a community newspaper. I worked in consulting at banks in Germany. Each paycheck with my name on it made me feel more real—more me.

One moment stands out. At my first management job at a weekly newspaper, an older editor pulled me aside after I pitched a section called Harbor News that would include sailing, tide chart, fishing and real estate. I had just read Shipping News by Annie Proulx, a story about a newspaper reporter who returns to Newfoundland and writes about what actually happens in her community which is largely focused on boats coming and going in the harbor. "Nobody cares about sailing," he said. "It’s elitist." I nodded politely, then went ahead and created the section anyway. When advertisers started asking to be placed next to the tide chart, he never mentioned it again. But I knew. Turns out people actually did care about sailing! Who would have thought that in a coastal town, information about the water might be useful.

I think the key to integrity is to be aware of the self. Notice where your words don’t match your values. Notice when you feel fake. Notice when you feel small and invisible.

Finding my true self didn't happen in isolation, and truthfully, I’m not there yet. Key people who genuinely cared about me helped me see glimpses of who I really was. My mother has been one of my strongest advocates. She defended me when others questioned my rights and helped me feel valued for who I was, not just who I might marry. I hope the boundaries she helped break will make the path easier for my children and all the generations that follow.

Here's what I've learned about finding your belonging:

Listen to your heart. Pay attention to what you truly value. When things don't feel right, when you're performing to be accepted, or you're afraid to say stuff out loud, that's your clue.

Find your tribe. Seek out the people who will love you no matter your crazy ideas, and people you can trust. They're out there. They might not be in your family or childhood friends, but they exist. Use Dr. Brené Brown’s "BRAVING" framework (Boundaries, Reliability, Accountability, Vault, Integrity, Non-judgment, Generosity). I heard in a meeting recently, “trust is gained in teaspoons, but lost in buckets.”

Stop people pleasing. When you say yes to someone else, you might be saying no to you. I spent years as a championship-level people pleaser. My schedule was packed with things I didn't want to do. The problem with being a people pleaser is that everyone loves you except yourself. One day I realized I had no idea what I actually enjoyed because I was too busy enjoying what other people told me I should.

For years, I thought belonging meant being accepted. Now I know: belonging begins when we accept ourselves. It took me a long time to realize that I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t disloyal. I wasn’t ungrateful. I was simply trying to be whole in multiple systems.

You can create your own world. Develop a board of directors who can help you weather the storms, so you can stand firm during chaos. Pick people you aspire to be. Be with them. Deepen your relationships.

It's impossible to stand firm if you don't know what you stand for. When I claimed my father's name, I wasn't just telling the truth—I was claiming love.

If you feel that ache, that discomfort in your chest and that tension in your shoulders, it might not be rebellion. It might be integrity calling you home.