Grieving the Old Self, Embracing the New Through Introspection

We often talk about leaving old versions of ourselves behind—shedding identities, transforming from caterpillar to butterfly. There’s a lot of theoretical and poetic language about that. The sleek skin being shed. The new version of self emerging.

But I think we need more tangible, real-time conversations about how this actually feels. About how the person we’re becoming becomes real. About how much grief there is in the becoming.

I wrote an article a while ago about how I feel like butterflies need therapy. No one really asks them if they wanted to become a butterfly. No one asked the caterpillar if they were ready for transformation. We just celebrate the butterfly and use that metaphor to make ourselves feel better about change. And I get it—I’m totally for the metaphor.

But I also want to take into account the experience of the caterpillar... and the caterpillar soup.

Most of us—speaking for myself—are propelled by an inner knowing that it’s time to change. That it’s time to leave something behind.

And yet, there’s so much pain in that.

When we talk about the death of an old identity, we’re not talking about something we’ve held onto for a few months. These identities are decades in the making. Maybe even lifetimes.

I don’t know where I stand on reincarnation, but if I entertain it, I believe we come into this life with habits and natural tendencies that we carry forward. Add in our foundations—our parents, our role models, religion, culture, upbringing—and suddenly, our identities are layered with unconscious patterns.

Then we become teenagers, rebelling against those structures… but even then, we’re just pushing against the known. We haven’t yet touched the unknown.

It’s not until our 20s or 30s—or later—that we start developing the skills and awareness to see these identities for what they are.

So when we decide to change, it’s not like losing a hat. It’s losing a house. A whole structure.

And that deserves to be grieved.

Personally, I’ve never given myself enough credit for how much I’ve changed. How deeply I’ve reflected. If you’re like me, maybe you haven’t either.

If you’re even trying to understand how your identity formed and why you are the way you are, that’s huge.

And when that self starts to shift, it’s not all-at-once. It’s one piece at a time. And each piece needs to be grieved as it’s let go.

Recently, I experienced something I’ve come to lovingly call the phantom limb of old habits and old identities. Every time I make a big change, I go through waves of grief. The more connected I am to my body, the more I feel it—physically, emotionally, spiritually. My body holds all of it.

So even if I make a mental or emotional change… something in my body still needs to catch up.

Sometimes that looks like a full day in bed, crying.

Grieving the thoughts, actions, communication styles, and beliefs of who I used to be.

Even if I’ve made different choices now, there’s a part of me still in the process of letting go.

That’s why I call it a phantom limb. I know it’s the old pattern… but it’s still present, asking for my attention.

And I like to imagine that it’s a part of me showing me what’s left to tend to. Like walking through a house and having someone say, “Hey, you missed a spot. This closet’s still full.”

Those phantom patterns are not failures. They’re reminders. Opportunities.

So I can clean up more clearly. Move forward with more integrity.

And yes, make peace with the messy parts.

I’m trying to make friends with the part of me that shows me the mess. That invites me to clean it up—not with shame, but with playfulness and compassion.

Because sometimes it really does feel like the caterpillar in me never gave consent to become this next version.

And yet, here I am. Who I’m becoming is very different from who I’ve been.

She’s no-nonsense. Direct. Spiritual. And maybe even… wise. I say that because I’ve walked deep into my own darkness. I’ve taken ownership of myself. And I want to honor that without pretending I have it all figured out.

I heard a quote yesterday: “If you don’t share your gifts, they will rot inside of you.”

And I felt that. If I don’t get out what’s in me, it will hurt. It will stagnate.

So I share my introspection openly.

Through writing, speaking, connecting, even just sitting with a tree.

And one of the most important things I’ve learned is that introspection is what helps me access my gifts and feel safe sharing them.

It’s not about ego or positioning myself as someone who has all the answers.

It’s about having the language for my inner world. And sharing that, honestly.

I’ve gone from being someone who didn’t think she was worth listening to, to someone who believes she’s worth being around.

And I’m grateful for that.

So I’ll end by asking you:

What’s one thing you can give yourself more credit for right now?

Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if it’s messy. Start rewriting the story of your growth.

Transformation isn’t always about adding. Sometimes it’s about letting go. Creating space. Making peace with the silence.

And I think that’s just as sacred.

Thanks for reading!

🌱 Reflective Prompts for the Grief of Becoming:

1. What version of myself am I currently grieving?

2. Which old habits still show up like phantom limbs?

3. What are those habits trying to tell me?

4. What’s one part of my past identity that kept me safe—but no longer serves me?

5. Where am I not giving myself enough credit for how far I’ve come?

6. How does transformation feel in my body—not just my mind?

7. What am I afraid might happen if I fully let go of who I used to be?

8. What’s one tiny way I can create space for who I’m becoming?

9. How can I bring playfulness or compassion into my process of change?

10. What’s one gift I carry that I don’t want to let rot inside me?