“I Used to Be Someone People Looked Up To. Now I Don’t Even Recognize Myself”
“There was a time when I felt like I mattered. Like people respected me, listened to me, saw me as someone strong, someone steady. I had purpose. I had presence. And now… I don’t even know who I am. I look in the mirror and feel like I’m staring at a stranger. I’ve lost my footing, and I don’t know how to rebuild from here.”
Dear Cal,
That fragment lands in the chest like a quiet implosion. Not a dramatic collapse, but the kind of internal unmooring that happens slowly, until one day you realize you don’t know who you are anymore. And not because of some single catastrophic event—but because of an accumulation. A quiet erosion. And the silence that follows when the world stops reflecting you back.
There’s a particular ache in having once been seen clearly. Valued. Admired. Respected. When people used to turn to you, quote you, lean on you. When you felt not just visible, but vital. And then, somehow, that part of you faded. The context changed. The energy shifted. Maybe a role ended, or a community dissolved, or something in your internal life began to dim without you meaning it to.
And now you find yourself in the in-between. Still you, but not quite. Still moving through the world, but disconnected from the version of yourself that once felt whole, or at least legible. That version of you who had gravity. Voice. Direction. And even if the change happened for understandable reasons, even if it came with choices you don’t regret, the loss of identity is still real.
I want to start by saying that what you’re feeling isn’t a failure of strength. It’s a rupture of self-recognition. When the external mirrors we once relied on for feedback, for belonging, for meaning—when those mirrors disappear or distort, it can be deeply destabilizing. We’re social beings. We build who we are not just from within, but through how we are reflected. And when those reflections go missing, we question everything.
It can happen after retirement. After illness. After caregiving. After burnout. After stepping back. After being forced out. After surviving something that others didn’t see. Sometimes we willingly trade that “looked-up-to” version of ourselves for something quieter, something closer to peace. But sometimes, we’re pushed out of that identity—and left to pick through the pieces of who we used to be.
And here’s the part that makes this kind of shift so hard to name: it doesn’t always come with drama. It can look like a normal life. You’re still doing things, showing up, paying bills. But internally, there’s a fracture. A sense that the self you were—someone proud, clear, capable—has gone missing. And you don’t know how to call them back.
That kind of loss isn’t always met with empathy. People might say you’re just going through a phase. That you’re still strong. That your worth isn’t based on productivity or praise. And while those things may be technically true, they don’t meet you where you are. They don’t name the rawness of losing your reflection. Of walking through your days and not seeing someone you admire in your own eyes anymore.
But I want you to know this: not recognizing yourself doesn’t mean you’re lost. It means you’re in the middle of a deep transition. A turning of soil. An undoing of performance, perhaps. Or a reckoning with burnout. Or the slow, aching process of being reshaped by grief, by aging, by change you didn’t ask for.
There’s no shame in not knowing who you are right now. It’s a sign you’re still honest. Still awake to what matters. Still alive to the need for coherence and purpose, even if it hasn’t returned yet.
You don’t have to rush to rebuild. Sometimes recognition doesn’t come from forcing a new image of self, but from letting go of the need to resemble your old one. The person you were—the one people looked up to—was real. And they still live in you. But you may no longer need to carry the same weight, perform the same confidence, hold the same space for others. Maybe this new version of you isn’t weaker—maybe they’re just quieter. Less performative. More inward. More raw.
That can be disorienting, especially if you were once someone others leaned on. You might even feel guilty for not showing up the same way. But strength isn’t always forward-facing. Sometimes it looks like falling apart without collapsing. Sometimes it looks like letting your old armor rust in the corner while you figure out how to breathe again without it.
You don’t owe the world a polished self. You owe yourself honesty. You owe yourself patience. You owe yourself time to reacquaint with the person who is emerging now—more complicated, maybe, but more true.
And let me say this: the admiration you once received wasn’t wasted. It wasn’t false. It wasn’t conditional on you staying the same forever. And if some people only knew how to value the old version of you, that’s a reflection of their limits—not yours. The right people will meet you where you are now, in this more tender, shifting version of self. And you might even find that what they see in you now is deeper, quieter, more sustaining than what they saw before.
But more importantly: what do you see?
Not in the mirror, not through the eyes of others—but in the parts of yourself that are still trying, still feeling, still showing up. Recognition takes time when identity has been untethered. But it returns. Not all at once, and not in the same costume. But it returns.
You don’t have to perform who you were. You only have to stay curious about who you’re becoming.
And in case no one has said it lately: you still matter. You still hold weight. You are not invisible just because the spotlight shifted. You’re in the shadows now, maybe—but the shadows are where the deeper work begins.
Still here. Still finding my reflection too.
–RJ