The Grief of Becoming Someone New

There’s a kind of grief people don’t talk about very often, the grief that comes when you finally become someone new.

Everyone celebrates the transformation.

Everyone talks about the glow, the clarity, the boundaries, the peace.

But almost no one talks about the quiet ache underneath it.

The ache of shedding versions of yourself that once kept you alive.

This year, I didn’t lose a person or a place.

I lost an old version of me.

The one who overexplained until her throat burned.

The one who performed emotional gymnastics just to stay in rooms that didn’t deserve her.

The one who believed belonging had to be earned, through shrinking, through smiling, through silence.

She didn’t disappear because she was weak.

She disappeared because I finally stopped needing her to survive.

And that’s where the grief sits.

It’s strange to mourn a version of yourself who held your entire life together.

She carried burdens that weren’t hers.

She kept the peace while she was falling apart.

She stayed small so others could stay comfortable.

She was exhausted, but she was loyal.

And becoming someone new meant laying her down gently... not erasing her, not judging her, but honoring the truth:

She did her best with what she had.

Letting go with reverence is different from letting go with coldness.

I didn’t ghost my old self.

I didn’t ghost the years it took to get here.

I walked through the door slowly, with both hands open, whispering a soft thank you for the version of me that kept trying, even when she didn’t feel seen.

Grief can be reverence.

It can be the way we bow to what shaped us.

It can be the way we say, “You mattered… and I release you.”

And now, in this new life, in this quiet Santa Fe air, I’m learning how to show up without performing.

To rest without apologizing.

To belong without convincing.

I’m still surprised by the softness of it all.

It feels like a life I wasn’t sure I would ever reach, one where I don’t have to argue for my existence or clutch my worth with both hands.

One where the new version of me feels more like truth than costume.

Becoming someone new is a beginning, yes.

But first, it’s a goodbye.

And this year, I’m finally giving myself permission to grieve the woman I had to be,

so I can fully become the one I’m meant to be.

Thank you for reading. If this stirred something in you and you’d like to spend more time with this work, you can explore The Humble Pie 12 Steps and learn more about how I support people as a trauma recovery coach.