During my first year of college, I lost my scholarship, was put on academic probation, developed an eating disorder and was kicked out of my sorority. Not the best of years.

As I was sitting with my mother waiting to meet my new psychologist, I felt tense expectation, just like a high-school student who knows she's about to receive a furious pairing of lecture and restriction from her parental unit. You know the kind: the one that begins with, "I'm very disappointed," and ends with the ceremonious handing over of the car keys.

But that never came. In its place was something much worse: a silent look mixed with fear and resignation that I'd never seen before in my mother's eyes.

I wasn't in high school anymore. This was where I was supposed to "begin" my life, and I was failing miserably Where had I gone wrong?

I was the smart kid. The shining star. Talented. A go-getter. The worship leader. The girl everyone stood back and watched, waiting for something amazing to happen. Certainly not the girl that needed to see a psychologist, and certainly not the girl that ... no, stop right there. The truth was that I didn't have the faintest idea who I was.

I had graduated from high school at the age of 16. This was after commuting to a school for the arts every afternoon, where I studied jazz and classical piano. I'd been a member of almost every club and society, while still being the lead musician at our church at least five times a week. My ACT scores were the highest in my graduating class. Name an accolade, and it was mine for the taking.

When it came time to choose a college, I picked a school far enough away from home so I could feel on my own, but close enough so I could still attend church in my hometown. During my freshman year, I received a full scholarship, got into "the" sorority and was a junior division senator in the student government before I could blink.

But within a few months, I began feeling lost and overwhelmed. I started sleeping through almost every day and partying with my fake ID into the night. I distinctly remember waking up behind the wheel at a gas station, not even remembering how I'd gotten there.

I wasn't even the slightest bit concerned about honoring God with my actions. My life was so out of control that it seemed I'd even failed Him—so why bother trying to put it back together?

I was going through the motions of a life that I couldn't really remember creating for myself. I found my identity solely in my ability to achieve and to earn the praise of others—something that turned out to be a never-ending ladder that I had to continually climb to get to the next big thing.

I'd get to the top, and instead of a glorious prize, there was another ladder, just waiting. I had run out of steam, and I really wanted to jump off the ledge of whatever ladder it was that I was supposed to be climbing.

Maybe the problem was that, at age 16, I just wasn't old enough to handle these responsibilities on my own. Or maybe I just didn't want to. It didn't matter—something had to change. The badge I was wearing—the one that read "the perfect girl"—had become less of an honor and more of a sentence on my life that I couldn't possibly serve.

My story is one that is echoed a million different ways. Are you the future doctor? The one that's going to cure cancer? The human-rights attorney? Are you the athlete that was the talk of your hometown? Are you the bookworm? The guy that totes around a guitar and is destined to be a star? What about the future business owner? Going to come back home and run the family business? The homecoming queen? The cheerleader? The minister? The missionary?

What about the screw-up? The class clown? The druggie? The loser? The criminal? The punk?

What would happen if you took any one of these titles—positive or negative—and wore it around your neck for the rest of your life? Would you freak out the first time your badge was scratched or banged up? If you lost it, would you know who you were? Eventually, would it weigh you down, limiting your ability to be everything that God created you to be?

If we truly believe in Christ's redemption, this life that we live on earth cannot be defined by any identity other than who we are in Him. When we anchor ourselves in something other than His love for us, we set ourselves up for disappointment. Things may go swimmingly on the surface, but unless we confidently know who He says we are, we will always be saying to ourselves, "If only I could ... ."

I'm not saying that you should drop out of school or give up on your gifts and talents. It's true that He plants certain dreams and desires in our hearts for His glory, but those dreams could quite possibly be only for a season. What I am saying is this: Your life is not what you "do" or what other people define you as. And, thankfully, it never will be.

Read through Colossians 3:1-4: "So if you're serious about living this new resurrection life with Christ, act like it. Pursue the things over which Christ presides. Don't shuffle along, eyes to the ground, absorbed with the things right in front of you. Look up, and be alert to what is going on around Christ—that's where the action is. See things from his perspective.

"Your old life is dead. Your new life, which is your real life—even though invisible to spectators—is with Christ in God. He is your life. When Christ (your real life, remember) shows up again on this earth, you'll show up, too—the real you, the glorious you. Meanwhile, be content with obscurity, like Christ" (The Message).

Bottom line? What you do, what you major in and where you graduate from do not matter nearly as much as finding your identity in Christ. As you transform more and more to the likeness of Him, the rest will fall into place. Worry first about adopting God's character.

Let's look again at Colossians: "From now on everyone is defined by Christ, everyone is included in Christ. So, chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, discipline. Be even-tempered, content with second place, quick to forgive an offense. Forgive as quickly and completely as the Master forgave you. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It's your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it" (3:11b-14, The Message).

I did end up leaving college, but only after what I call a "God moment." Driving between my hometown and my university one Sunday after a worship service of crying out before Him, I began to listen. And the still small voice—the one that everyone mentions so casually—really did speak to me.

I moved out of state, got a degree in audio engineering and ten years later have found a good deal of success as a producer, songwriter, wife and, someday, a mother.

But wait, I did it again. More labels. What I really should have said is this: After listening to God, silencing every other voice but His and focusing on wearing only one badge—Christ's—my life has become more fulfilling than I ever could have imagined.

The level of success that I reach is never as important as the love I give to others or the glimpses of Jesus that someone may see in my actions. I want to be tied so closely to the Holy Spirit that, in every aspect of my life, His ideas and inspirations touch others through me.

Whatever my biography or obituary reads, I have made a choice to be the real me, the glorious me, the best me … the me that is in Christ.