The Day I Forgot Who I Was

There was a moment—sometime between making lunch and pretending to have it all together—when I stared at a blank page and couldn’t answer the simplest question: Who am I?

I was supposed to be writing a bio. Just a few sentences. No big deal. But every word I typed felt false, like I was dressing up an old version of myself that didn’t quite fit anymore. I'd write empathetic, then delete it. Listener, then erase that too. Every quality came with a shadow—too much, too little, or not what I wanted to carry forward.

I kept trying to make it sound right. Sound polished. Sound like someone worth knowing. But the truth—the one I was dancing around—was this:

I didn’t know who I was anymore.

And that terrified me.

But it also cracked something open.

Maybe the “I don’t know” wasn’t something to hide. Maybe it was the most honest thing I could say. I wasn’t lost—I was in transition. And that’s not weakness. That’s a beginning.

I realized I’d been shape-shifting for so long—into roles, into expectations, into what looked good from the outside—that I hadn’t taken a breath just to be. And underneath it all, I was tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of being seen and still unseen.

I’d been the strong one. The planner. The one who made sure everyone else had what they needed. And when I stepped back, even just for a moment, it felt like the world noticed—and not always kindly.

There’s a cost to evolving, especially when others benefited from who you used to be.

I didn’t expect this journey to feel so lonely. I didn’t expect the grief that comes with shedding old identities. But I also didn’t expect the quiet joy of hearing my own voice again—shaky, sure, but finally mine.

The truth is, I’m not just one thing. I’m not just a title or a tagline or a tidy paragraph on a website. I’m a novel in progress. A body of work with chapters still being written. Some of those chapters are messy. Some are full of grace. Most are both.

I’ve learned that real connection doesn’t come when I show up with my representative—it comes when I show up with my truth.

And maybe that’s what I’ve been craving all along: to be seen in the becoming, not just the arriving.

If you’re there too—somewhere between what was and what’s next—I want you to know something:

You don’t have to have it all figured out to be worthy of love, friendship, or belonging.

You are allowed to evolve.

You’re allowed to not know.

And you are allowed to want more.

So here I am, not fully formed, but fully honest. I’m not who I used to be. I’m not yet who I will become. But I’m listening, shifting, and showing up. And if you are too, then maybe we’ve already found each other.

Welcome to the in-between.

We’re in it together.

Featured artwork by Sarah Greenman.
Learn more about her soulful work @ www.sarahgreenman.com.