Some years ago, I was at a party where the host introduced me to a stranger as “a business journalist who has been around for a long while now”.

I smiled and extended my hand, but before I could say any more, the stranger lit up and said, “Tell me, what’s your take on crypto?”

I don’t remember much else about that conversation. I probably mumbled something incoherent (crypto has never been my thing). But what stayed with me was how uncomfortable it all felt. I wasn’t being presented as Charles, the person. I was Charles the journalist, here at a hedge-fund manager’s party in almost a professional capacity.

Some years ago, I was at a party where the host introduced me to a stranger as “a business journalist who has been around for a long while now”.

I smiled and extended my hand, but before I could say any more, the stranger lit up and said, “Tell me, what’s your take on crypto?”

I don’t remember much else about that conversation. I probably mumbled something incoherent (crypto has never been my thing). But what stayed with me was how uncomfortable it all felt. I wasn’t being presented as Charles, the person. I was Charles the journalist, here at a hedge-fund manager’s party in almost a professional capacity.

It wasn’t strictly wrong; but it didn’t feel entirely right either.

Whenever I think about the incident now, I think about how tightly we wear our professional identities.

So much of the time, we are not really presenting ourselves or being perceived as people in a wholer sense; we are being equated with what we do. I am Charles, the journalist. You may be Rohit the tech guy, or Vinicia the HR executive, or Sunny the stay-at-home parent.

It’s not entirely our fault; it’s how we’ve been conditioned to think about each other, and ourselves. This hit home harder recently, when scrolling through my phone contacts.

What started as a casual attempt to delete defunct numbers quickly turned into a philosophical thought experiment. For each entry, I asked myself: “Is this name here because I care about this person? Or because of the title this person holds?”

The answers were sobering. A large chunk of the names meant something to me not because of who they were, but because of what they stood for; the professional power or affiliation they represented.

My next thought was inevitable: If they lost their title, how would I view them? If I lost mine, how would they view me?

These are painful questions to confront, and I won’t pretend I liked the answers. So I thought, why not attempt to live for a while as if my professional identity didn’t exist? Why not stop using the “journalist” card in conversation; stop leaning on my professional networks for a while? And why not try existing as just me, “Charles”?

It sounded simple enough in theory. In practice, it was disorienting.

The first challenge came at a family gathering. Someone asked, “So, Charles, what’s new in the media?” Instinct suggested I jump in with spiel. But I didn’t want to do that (and, really, what is the answer to that question?). So instead I said: “Honestly, I’m not sure.”

An awkward pause followed. People looked at me like I’d forgotten my lines in a play. I realised how much I leaned on my job to anchor even casual conversation. It was really quite awful… until thankfully someone else started talking about their work.

My next challenge came in the form of a couple of requests for “coffee meetings”. I turned down invites from people who explicitly said they wanted to “pick my brain as a journalist”.

This is also when I realised how often I approach others with their titles in mind. I don’t call my chartered accountant because I want to chat about his garden. I don’t reach out to old colleagues because I miss their company. I do it because they’re now in interesting places that might “align with my goals”. Stripped of these transactional motives, my contact list felt like a graveyard of hollow connections.

The experiment only lasted a few days, but it did help me refocus on some deeper connections too. A neighbour dropped by one evening, for instance, with a plate of samosas — no reason, no agenda. We sat in my verandah and talked about the city, our shared hatred of traffic, and the fact that he and I share the same parenting problems.

Later that night, I did wonder: Would I have paid the same attention to him if he were “just” my neighbour and not someone who occasionally helped with local civic issues? Maybe not. But that evening, he wasn’t his title, and I wasn’t mine. We were just two people sharing stories about our true selves.

Which brings me to my rather sobering conclusion: We all say we want to be known for who we are and not what we do. But we don’t make it easy. We wear our professional identities like armour, shielding ourselves from the messiness of genuine connection.

Of course, the world would be an impossible place without our labels. Titles connect people in their own way. They also help open doors, grease wheels, get one the occasional free drink at a conference.

I wouldn’t be talking to you if I weren’t “Charles the business journalist who has been around a long time”. It is unlikely you would read my life advice if it came from “Charles, the guy who Googles how to boil eggs every single time he cooks”.

As I type it, I wonder if I should delete that last line and get back behind the armour. But hey, I’m trying something. Let’s see if we can all lean a little less on our professional personas, and allow a little bit more of our silly, flawed, imperfect real selves into the world.

(Charles Assisi is co-founder of Founding Fuel. He can be reached on assisi@foundingfuel.com)