The Identity Death That Comes Before the Breakthrough
There comes a point in any leader’s life when something has to die in order for something deeper to rise.
Maybe it’s the dream that only existed to please others.
Maybe it’s the identity that got you applause—but also burned you out.
This isn’t about pivoting.
It’s not a rebrand.
It’s a full-on death—of a version of you that cannot come with you into the next season.
And that kind of death?
It rarely feels empowering at first.
It feels like grief. Like confusion. Like ego unraveling in slow motion.
But if you’re here—raw, stripped down, unsure of who you are now—
you’re not broken.
You’re in the sacred middle.
Let’s talk about what it means to lose an identity—and honor the emergence of a self built on truth, not survival.
The Journey Back to Yourself Starts Here
The Death You Didn’t See Coming
Growth doesn’t always start with a breakthrough.
Sometimes, it starts with a breakdown.
Mine did.
In April 2013, I walked out of my corporate job for the last time. I didn’t do it with a strategic plan or six-month runway. I did it because my husband looked at me—exhausted, unraveling—and said, “I can’t watch you deteriorate like this.”
And he was right.
I was running on fumes. Insomnia. Hair thinning. Constant anxiety.
But I didn’t want to quit. Because quitting felt like failure.
I was raised on the gospel of self-sufficiency.
Don’t need a man. Take care of yourself. Get the degrees. Buy the Suze Orman books. Have a plan A, B, C, and D.
Work two jobs if you have to. Just don’t be dependent.
So even when I knew my bosses hated me…
Even when I was put on a PIP…
Even when I couldn’t sleep and my body was breaking down…
I stayed.
Because that over-functioning, high-achieving, keep-it-all-together identity was all I had ever known.
Until it collapsed.
And when it did, I didn’t feel free.
I felt lost. Exposed. Ashamed.
Because if I wasn’t the strong one, the capable one, the financial anchor—
then who was I?
That’s the part no one prepares you for.
You stop performing. Stop fixing. Stop pleasing.
And instead of relief, you feel completely disoriented.
You’re not alone.
This happens to women who leave churches they helped build.
To men who step away from businesses that once gave them identity.
To leaders who realize the systems they upheld are slowly killing them.
If you’ve ever read Wintering by Katherine May, you know the moment.
When she loses her voice—not just from illness, but from the soul-deep exhaustion of trying to accommodate contradictory expectations.
If you’ve sat with Geri Scazzero’s Emotionally Healthy Woman, you’ve felt the ache.
The eight years she stayed silent to support her husband’s ministry—until the silence almost destroyed her.
Those are the lucky ones.
The ones who made it out.
Many never do.
They die inside trying to live up to an identity that was never theirs to carry.
An identity curated by fear, trauma, shame—and wrapped in survival.
This isn’t failure.
It’s ego death.
You stopped doing what kept you safe—
but now nothing feels safe.
And that’s exactly when you know something real is trying to be born.
The Armor That Protected You—But Can’t Stay
Before the unraveling came the armor.
And that armor? It didn’t come out of nowhere.
It was earned—through pressure, pain, and impossible expectations.
You didn’t just choose these roles.
You became them because the world rewarded your ability to self-abandon.
Let’s name them.
Let’s see them for what they were: brilliant, costly, temporary forms of protection.
✳️ The High Achiever
Praised for her drive. Respected for her output.
But behind closed doors?
She’s counting the cost in silence.
Insomnia. Digestive issues. Secret meltdowns she hides from her team.
She tells herself,
“If I stop producing, I’ll lose everything.”
“My value is my results.”
I wrote about her in You’re Not a Burden:
“She gives and gives until her body gives out—then quietly signs back in the next day.”
But she’s tired.
She’s done leading like she’s at war.
✳️ The Stoic Leader
She keeps the ship afloat.
No drama. No tears. Just “logic” and “clarity.”
But that calm is often just emotional frostbite.
A coping strategy that says: “Feelings get in the way of respect.”
You met her in Feminine vs. Masculine Energy:
“She’s the woman praised for being ‘unshakable’—until she realizes her own needs have been buried under decades of composure.”
She thought shutting down was strength.
But now, the numbness is leaking through.
✳️ The Hyper-Resilient One
She’s the one people point to when they say,
“If she can survive that, what’s your excuse?”
But they don’t see the cost.
The marriages that collapsed because she never needed anyone.
The chronic tension in her shoulders.
The way joy feels like a threat—because she’s always bracing for the next blow.
This is the one you grieved in The Success Spiral Nobody Warns You About:
“Winning became your armor. Growth became your cover story. But deep down, you were still stuck in survival.”
And now that life’s a little safer…
She doesn’t know what to do with herself.
Stillness feels wrong.
✳️ The Emotional Caretaker
She’s the glue.
The fixer. The emotional sherpa for everyone around her.
She anticipates others’ needs before they speak.
She validates, softens, absorbs.
And she disappears.
I described her in Breaking the Provider Trap—yes, even in the male form:
“Caretaking was never just generosity. It was a way to stay needed. To stay indispensable.”
But what happens when no one needs her anymore?
Or when she finally needs them—and they can’t meet her?
These aren’t fictional archetypes.
These are you, at different seasons.
Each role once held you together.
But now? They’re breaking you apart.
And here’s the gut-punch:
You will grieve them—even the ones that nearly killed you.
Because you made an entire life out of being these versions.
And even if they were unsustainable, they felt sacred.
So honor them.
But stop dragging them into your next season.
The Void Between Blueprints
You’ve shed the armor.
The roles are dead.
But now you’re standing in the hallway—
Between what collapsed… and what hasn’t formed yet.
You’re not who you were.
You’re not yet who you’re becoming.
And that in-between?
It’s disorienting as hell.
This is the part no one posts about.
No glowing testimonials. No six-figure launch story. No glitzy transformation montage.
Just space.
Raw, open, eerily quiet space.
You start wondering:
“Am I doing something wrong?”
“Shouldn’t I be clear by now?”
“Why do I feel emptier, not freer?”
But here’s what most people never learn:
This void is sacred.
It’s the fertile soil where the real self grows.
But it won’t bloom on command.
You talked about this moment in You Outgrew Your Personal Brand. Now What?:
“You’re not confused. You’re clearing space.”
“You’re not lost. You’re unmasking.”
The temptation here is to reach for a new identity immediately.
To rebrand. Pivot. Hustle your way into a shinier version of the old self.
But that’s just trauma with new fonts.
Most people don’t stay here.
They bounce back to what’s familiar:
Overworking (because stillness feels lazy)
Control (because ambiguity feels dangerous)
Identity-chasing (because not being “known” feels like being no one)
But if you can stay…
If you can breathe inside the discomfort and not make it mean something bad…
You’ll realize this isn’t regression.
It’s revelation.
There’s wisdom in the void—
if you don’t rush to fill it.
This isn’t your downfall.
This is your cocoon.
And yes, it’s dark.
But you’re not lost.
You’re incubating.
🌿 Still in the hallway?
You’re not alone—and you’re not crazy.
If you’re tired of surface-level advice and ready to walk this void with someone who’s been through it,
let’s talk.
👉 Explore coaching with Denise
What Real Progress Looks Like in the In-Between
When I left corporate, I thought I’d feel free.
But mostly?
I felt hollow.
I wasn’t hustling for performance anymore—
but I also didn’t know how to rest without guilt.
I didn’t know how to stop planning without panicking.
I thought healing would feel like clarity.
Instead, it felt like fog.
No one tells you that real growth doesn’t always feel like growth.
Sometimes it feels like regression.
Like you’re doing “nothing.”
Like you’re falling behind.
But here’s the truth:
Progress in the in-between looks like stillness without clarity.
Like saying no even when there’s no new “yes” in sight.
Like choosing presence over performance—again and again.
It’s the season where your nervous system starts whispering:
We don’t live like that anymore.
Even if your brain hasn’t caught up.
I had to re-learn how to track growth without tying it to checklists or conversions.
I had to let myself be quiet, tender, unfixed.
Because emotional sobriety isn’t loud.
It’s not impressive.
It doesn’t post well on Instagram.
📊 In fact, according to research from the American Psychological Association, 76% of people report that they associate progress with action, even when their therapist encourages rest, reflection, or letting go. That disconnect creates false guilt—especially for high-functioning adults who’ve been rewarded for constant motion.
So if you feel “lazy” in this season?
You’re not.
You’re detoxing from an identity that made exhaustion feel virtuous.
“There are years that ask questions, and years that answer.” — Zora Neale Hurston
But the in-between? That’s the year you stop performing the question altogether.
This is the work no one sees.
The work that looks like “nothing.”
But it’s everything.
Clarissa Pinkola Estés called this “descansos”—
the sacred pauses where you lay down what no longer serves,
to honor the pieces of you that died along the road.
So lay it down.
You don’t owe anyone a polished progress report.
Let this season be slow, sacred, unseen.
Because healing doesn’t always look like power.
But it’s how real power is born.
So when you start to shed them? Don’t be surprised if people panic.
Or if you panic.
If these roles feel painfully familiar—like you’ve been living someone else’s expectations on autopilot—
you might be carrying a life script that was never truly yours.
👉 Explore your life script
You’re Not Lost—You’re Emerging
You’re in the hallway.
Not at the end of one room—
and not quite inside the next.
It’s not just a transition.
It’s a transformation.
You didn’t lose yourself.
You’re shedding a self that was never fully yours to begin with.
And that ache you feel?
It’s not confusion.
It’s calibration.
You’re adjusting to a life that no longer runs on fear, urgency, or applause.
Which means everything—everything—feels unfamiliar.
This is the part where most people turn back.
They mistake grief for misalignment.
They crave clarity and settle for control.
But you’re still here.
Reading. Breathing. Not rushing.
That means something.
This is the birth canal of true identity.
And yes, it’s tight. Muffled. Scary.
But you’re not dying.
You’re crowning.
You’re not off-path.
You’re in the emergence.
And no—it’s not cute.
But it’s real.
Your old roles may fall away faster than the new ones arrive. That’s not failure. That’s fidelity.
And if you want the honest truth?
I’m still here, too.
Still walking this hallway.
Still stretching into a life that doesn’t always feel like mine yet.
I feel the confusion. The grief. The bitterness of being told that “happiness” meant shrinking—erasing parts of me that never deserved to be erased.
And yet… I also feel the quiet possibility beneath it all.
Like something sacred is forming.
Even if I can’t name it yet.
So if you’re in the in-between—
you’re not alone.
You’re not failing.
You’re emerging.
If you’re in this space—this sacred middle—
don’t rush to fill it.
Don’t perform your grief.
Just be here.
And if you want to walk through it with someone who won’t flinch at the silence,
you know where to find me.
