Shifting Identity: When Life Redefines You
I used to think identity was something you chose. You picked your titles, your passions, your people — and that was that. Wife. Mom. Educator. Someone who tried to do the right thing. I wore those roles like armor.
But when life cracked everything open, when the world I knew split into a before and after, I started to feel the shift. Not all at once — not in a dramatic, lightbulb moment. No, it was quieter than that. The slow unraveling of who I thought I was. A gradual reshaping, piece by piece, until the old version of me no longer felt like home.
Somewhere between the hospital waiting room and the sleepless nights, between the praying and the pleading and the learning to breathe again — I changed. I was still me… but not the same.
I didn’t notice the shift all at once. It revealed itself in small, surprising ways. Like the day one of Luke’s nurses asked me to help dress the deep wound on his hand. Just a few days earlier, the first time I saw that injury, I nearly fainted. If it weren’t for our ER nurse, Callie, slipping a chair beneath me, I would’ve hit the floor. But something changed. After days in the trauma ICU, alarms and IVs and lab draws had become part of the rhythm of our new life. When I looked at Luke’s hand again, I didn’t flinch. I moved toward him instead.
Or the afternoon I stepped outside while he was having a procedure — my first time in the sun in what felt like weeks. I walked across the street and sat on a park bench in a patch of grass tucked into the middle of downtown Memphis. For a moment, I let the sun warm my face. I let myself breathe. I felt something close to joy, just for a second, as I thought about how far Luke had come.
Missing the Before Me
There are still days I miss the me from before.
I miss the mental clarity I used to take for granted — how thoughts came easily, how I could find words without searching for them. These days, it sometimes feels like I’m walking through fog, trying to remember what I was just saying or why I walked into a room.
I miss how much more space I used to have for other people’s frustrations and irritations. I used to pride myself on being a steady presence, someone who could listen without absorbing too much. Now, my bandwidth is thinner. My fuse is shorter. The same empathy I used to offer so freely feels harder to access, like it’s buried beneath the weight of everything we’ve been through.
I wish I still had the ability to multi-task the way I used to — to juggle, engage, support, and respond with a clear mind. But I know this season has rewired something in me. And maybe that’s okay, even if I’m still learning how to live inside it.
There’s a quiet kind of grief that comes with surviving. Most people only see the miracle — and it is a miracle — but they don’t always see what it cost. They see the strength, but not the exhaustion. They celebrate the healing, but miss the hollowed-out spaces the trauma left behind.
I look the same on the outside. I still show up, still smile, still function. But inside, I sometimes feel like a stranger to myself — like I’m still trying to catch up to the version of me that used to be able to carry so much without breaking. I miss her. Not because she was better, but because she didn’t know what I know now. She hadn’t yet felt the helplessness of watching her child suffer. She hadn’t yet learned what it means to live one breath, one prayer, one heartbeat at a time. There’s wisdom in who I am now, yes. But there’s loss, too. And I think it’s okay to say that out loud.
And yet, even in the ache of what I’ve lost, I can see what’s been forming in its place.
Beauty in the New Me
This version of me isn’t as quick on her feet, but she is steadier at her core. She doesn’t carry as much, but she knows now which burdens are hers to hold — and which ones she can finally lay down.
I used to think strength looked like holding it all together. Now I think it might look more like falling apart and choosing to rebuild anyway.
There’s a tenderness I’ve gained — a softer lens for others who are walking through invisible battles. There’s a reverence for the ordinary — a cup of coffee at my own dining table, a walk outside with the sun on my face, a text from a friend that reminds me I’m not alone.
Maybe this is what it means to be refined in fire: not to come out unburned, but to come out changed. Humbled. Hallowed. New.
I’m learning to have patience with myself. To stop expecting the old version of me to show up and perform like she used to. To accept that healing isn’t linear, and identity isn’t fixed. I can grieve what we’ve lost and honor who I’m becoming. Both are true.
I’m learning to protect my peace — to be more careful with what I let into my space, into my mind, into my spirit. The version of me that came through this fire knows now that not everything is worth carrying. Not every conversation needs to be had. Not every opinion needs to be absorbed.
There is strength in becoming softer. There is wisdom in setting boundaries. There is freedom in letting go of who I was supposed to be, and embracing who I actually am — right here, right now.
If you’re walking through your own identity shift — if life has cracked something open in you, or around you — I want you to know you’re not alone.
You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t have to rush the process or tie it up with a bow. It’s okay to miss who you were and still be proud of who you’re becoming. It’s okay to be both tender and tough, both weary and hopeful.
Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is simply keep going. Keep breathing. Keep showing up, even if we’re not sure who we are anymore.
You’re not lost. You’re becoming.
And becoming is holy ground.
Keep shining,
