In an old moon-cake box lay hundreds of hang tags; they are different shapes and colors, flaunt decisive typography, and showcase intricate logos, differentiating each and every one. To many, these tags are a nuisance – quickly snipped off of their products and tossed into the trash. But to me, each one of these petite tags has a backstory and occupies an unforgettable niche in my memory.

I look fondly back at my Grishko tag with its swooping lettering and glossy finish, previously attached to my once pristine pointe shoes. I think of the warm laughter and the close bonds I shared with my friends, but also of the pressures I imposed on myself to keep up with their progress. With my pointe shoes, I created memories of burning the ends of satin ribbons with my class and our shrieks of delight when we perfected our shoes. But also with my pointe shoes, I fanatically drilled pirouettes, despite how nauseous I became, to keep up with my class.

Under my Grishko tag are flattened boxes of Bunheads’ toe pads, cushioning I stuffed into the toe-boxes of my pointe shoes to alleviate the blisters and sores I developed from obsessive pointe shoe practice. I was self-conscious and insecure; I feared mistakes, loathed my flaws and grew dependent on the confirmation of others.

Beneath the Bunheads boxes, I find another – one that isn’t quite so flat. My final Bunheads purchase, the toe pads are still sealed in the box. I bought them before recognizing my incompatible fit with ballet and understanding that continuing to dance would only hurt me more.

I dig deeper into my box and find a Fencing.net tag, simple and utilitarian white text on a green background, fastened to one component of my all-white ensemble. Even though I had quit ballet, I missed its graceful motions and luckily stumbled upon fencing, a perfect replacement. With its blaring machines and clashing metal, fencing was a stark contrast to the orderly art of ballet. Fencing, with its seemingly effortless maneuvers, matched the fluid movements of ballet that I was looking for, but also didn’t concern itself with appearances. There was a proper form, but I could also deviate outside of what was technically correct. Fencers earned points even if actions were executed imperfectly, allowing room for error and experimentation. I was encouraged, for the first time, to be unapologetic, powerful and even flawed.

My Champion tag I have to rummage around a bit to find, but here it is. Previously fixed to a pair of stretchy sweatpants, this tag reminds me of the brief period when I had no other pants to wear since my thighs had grown too muscular for my jeans. No one seemed to understand why I had chosen fencing over ballet, why I had sacrificed elegance for ferocity. But fencing taught me to be fearless, and I no longer needed the validation of others to feel confident about myself. Substituting the leotards I wore for the fencing knickers I now don had in no way changed the core of who I was. The mothers could talk, but ultimately I choose the identity I wear.

My collection of tags continues to grow. These tags, dainty fragments of paper, have recorded my life, my growth and maturity, as a diary. When I collect these tags, I see glimpses of myself in a collage of letters and textures, one that I contemplate over and over again.