There's a part of making a big change nobody really sells you on.
You've done it.
You made the decision. Closed the chapter. Stepped away from whatever wasn't fitting anymore.
And for a while, everyone wants to know:
“So what's next?”
Fantastic question.
No idea.
I mean, I have ideas. Thoughts. Things I'm exploring.
But if you're asking for the polished answer with a title and a five-step plan attached...
Can we circle back?
Because apparently leaving something behind does not come with complimentary overnight shipping on your new identity.
I would've appreciated that.
Instead, there's this weird middle where you're no longer quite who you were, but you don't completely recognize who you're becoming yet.
And I think that middle can make us incredibly uncomfortable.
Especially if you've spent a long time knowing how to introduce yourself.
This is what I do.
These are my people.
This is what I'm building.
This is where I'm going.
There's a certain security in having those answers.
Then something changes and suddenly the words you've used to describe yourself don't quite work anymore.
I've felt that lately.
For years, there were parts of my identity that came with really easy language. People knew what I did. I knew what I did. I had communities, responsibilities and goals connected to that version of my life.
Then I stepped away.
And I knew why.
What I didn't immediately know was what I was supposed to call everything that came next.
Which is particularly inconvenient when you're building a website, updating LinkedIn or talking to someone who innocently asks what you do.
Like... how much time do you have?
Because I'm going to need a whiteboard.
This is where my natural instinct is to figure it out.
Quickly.
Give the new thing a name. Build the plan. Organize the ideas. Make the transition look intentional enough that nobody suspects you're still working parts of it out in real time.
And there is value in direction. At some point, yes, you have to choose things.
But I think we can rush ourselves into a new identity simply because the empty space left by the old one feels uncomfortable.
We want to know who we're becoming before we've had enough time to actually become her.
That's backwards.
I don't think most identity changes happen because one morning you wake up and announce, Ah yes. Here she is.
You start noticing her.
In little moments.
You hear yourself talking about something and realize you sound more alive.
You do work that feels different in a way you can't quite explain yet.
Someone reflects something back to you that you've been beginning to see too.
You wake up one morning and realize the thing that used to occupy your thoughts all day hasn't crossed your mind yet.
Or you notice that you're lighter.
Not finished. Not certain.
Just... lighter.
I've had some of those moments recently, and I think they're teaching me something about transition.
Confirmation doesn't always arrive as a giant sign telling you exactly what happens next. Sometimes it looks like recognizing that the life you're moving toward feels increasingly like yours.
That's subtle.
And when you're impatient for answers, subtle can be incredibly annoying.
I'd personally prefer the PowerPoint.
Slide one: WHO YOU ARE NOW.
Slide two: WHAT YOU'RE DOING FOR THE NEXT TEN YEARS.
Slide three: HOW THIS ALL WORKS OUT.
God has apparently declined my request.
Instead, I've had to get more comfortable paying attention.
What keeps pulling at me?
What work feels meaningful now?
What parts of myself are coming back?
What am I interested in when I'm not trying to turn the answer into something useful?
Where do I feel more like myself instead of more impressive?
And yes, where do I feel God nudging me—even if I don't yet understand the whole direction?
I think we sometimes imagine finding yourself as recovering one specific version who got lost somewhere along the way.
But what if you aren't supposed to go back and find her?
What if you're meeting someone new?
She'll have pieces of every version that came before. The experience doesn't disappear. The skills don't disappear. The relationships, lessons, failures, ridiculous spreadsheets—all of it comes with you.
But it gets rearranged. Used differently. Some things get louder. Other things don't matter as much anymore. And eventually you realize you haven't lost yourself.
You've changed.
And that's different.
There's a verse in Isaiah where God says, “See, I am doing a new thing.”
I've always loved the new thing part.
Sounds exciting.
But the next question is essentially: Do you perceive it?
That's interesting to me now, because apparently part of a new beginning is being willing to notice it before you completely understand it.
I can do that.
I don't have to have the entire new identity packaged and ready for public consumption.
I can pay attention to what is already emerging.
And if you're in one of those strange in-between seasons too, I think you're allowed to give yourself that same room.
You don't have to replace the old title immediately. Or announce the next chapter before you've lived enough of it to know what it is.
And you definitely don't need to panic because the answer to Who am I now? is still a little blurry.
Just keep living. Keep paying attention. Try things. Notice what fits. Notice what doesn't. And let yourself be surprised by what comes back and what doesn't.
Because the new version of you probably isn't going to arrive all at once.
One day you may just look around at the life you're building and realize...
Oh.
There you are. 🩷
Want to keep going with this conversation?
🎧 Listen to Episode 57: What The Other Side of Transition Really Feels Like →