I Thought I Lost Her. Turns Out, She Was Becoming Me.
On rediscovering your ambition, finding your fire, and realizing that healing doesn’t always look like getting your old self back.
There was a version of me I used to absolutely love.
She was ambitious. Confident. Creative. Driven. She had ideas before her feet hit the floor in the morning and somehow convinced herself she had enough hours in the day to execute every single one of them. She laughed at inappropriate times. Randomly broke into song. Danced for absolutely no reason.
She was a little chaotic, a lot determined, and genuinely believed she could figure just about anything out.
And most of the time, she did.
God, I loved being her.
Then life flipped all the way over.
Not all at once, of course. That would have been far too convenient.
No, life had the audacity to dismantle me in installments.
A disappointment here. A betrayal there. A few circumstances I couldn’t control. A couple of decisions I wish I’d made differently. Some lessons I apparently needed to learn the hard way because the universe decided the regular curriculum wasn’t quite getting through to me.
And somewhere in the middle of surviving all of it, I lost touch with that woman.
Or at least, that’s what I thought.
When Your Fire Goes Out
Have you ever been just exhausted?
I’m not talking about the kind of exhausted that a weekend off and a decent night’s sleep can fix.
I’m talking about the exhaustion that comes from spending so much time trying to keep your head above water that you forget you used to know how to swim.
I missed my drive.
I missed having a vision that made me excited to wake up.
I missed the feeling of building something from absolutely nothing and watching it become something real.
I missed being the woman who could walk into a room, figure out what needed to happen, and make it happen.
And I tried to get her back.
God, did I try.
I made plans. Set goals. Gave myself pep talks. Tried to manufacture motivation through sheer determination.
Which, for someone who literally wrote a book about setting goals, was a particularly irritating experience.
Imagine knowing all the steps, having all the tools, and still not being able to make yourself move.
That’ll humble the hell out of you.
But no matter how hard I pushed, the ambition wouldn’t come.
And eventually, I stopped trying to force it.
Not because I stopped caring.
But because I couldn’t keep fighting myself into becoming someone I used to be.
The Strange Art of Coming Back to Yourself
Something has been happening lately.
It’s subtle.
So subtle, in fact, that I almost missed it.
I’ve been laughing more.
Not polite little chuckles. I’m talking about my actual, ridiculous sense of humor making unexpected appearances.
I’ve caught myself singing.
Dancing.
Getting excited about ideas again.
I’ve started recognizing skills and abilities I’d spent entirely too much time minimizing.
And perhaps most surprisingly, I’ve started feeling confident.
Not the manufactured confidence that comes from telling yourself affirmations in the mirror while secretly questioning every life decision you’ve ever made.
Actual confidence.
The kind that comes from looking at what you’ve accomplished, what you’ve survived, and what you’re capable of, and thinking:
Wait a damn minute. I’m actually pretty good at this.
And then something hit me.
Oh my God… I know her.
I KNOW THAT WOMAN.
She’s the one who used to get excited about building businesses and creating things and solving problems.
She’s the one who thrived on challenges.
The one who loved turning ridiculous ideas into actual results.
The one who could find humor in damn near anything.
For a moment, I thought:
Holy Shit, She’s coming back.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized something.
She’s not.
I’m Not Going Back
Because here’s the thing about the woman I used to be. As much as I loved her, she didn’t know everything I know now. She hadn’t learned some of the lessons I’ve learned. She hadn’t developed the boundaries I’m learning to protect with my life. She hadn’t acquired this level of self-awareness. And even though the amount of things she had already been through was more than most people can even imagine, she hadn’t walked through this specific type of hell I’ve walked through since.
I don’t want to erase those experiences. Don’t get me wrong. There are a few chapters I would have gladly skipped. Zero stars. Would not recommend. But those chapters changed me. They made me examine parts of myself I hadn’t wanted to look at.
They forced me to question patterns, expectations, and beliefs I’d carried for years. They taught me that being strong doesn’t mean being unaffected. That confidence doesn’t require having all the answers.
And that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is admit that the way you’ve always done things isn’t working anymore.
So no, I don’t think the old me is coming back. I think I’m becoming a new version of her. One with a little more wisdom. A little more patience. A hell of a lot more self-awareness. And a few battle scars that have earned their place.
The Fire Didn’t Die. It Needed Something Different.
The other day, I was talking about how much I missed my ambition. How much I loved that feeling of being completely invested in something. And I realized I wasn’t just missing productivity.
I was missing purpose.
I missed the feeling of using my brain in ways that excited me. I missed creativity that had somewhere to go. I missed solving problems that actually mattered to me.
And lately, as I’ve started recognizing the value of my skills and exploring new opportunities, that feeling has started creeping back in.
It’s not because I’ve perfected some elaborate morning routine or discovered a magical productivity hack. But because I’m finally beginning to see possibilities again, and they are aligned with who I am now.
And apparently, my ambition likes that a whole lot better than being dragged out of bed by its ankles and threatened with a color-coded planner.
Who knew?
Maybe Healing Isn’t About Getting Yourself Back
We talk about healing like it’s a restoration project.
Like somewhere underneath the pain and the mistakes and the trauma is this perfectly preserved version of ourselves just waiting to be uncovered.
I’m starting to think healing is less about returning to who we were and more about making room for who we’re becoming.
Maybe the goal isn’t to get back to the woman who existed before everything happened. Maybe the goal is to take the parts of her we loved, combine them with everything we’ve learned, and create someone entirely new. Someone who still laughs too loudly. Still has big ideas. Still dances randomly, for no particular reason.
But who also knows when to rest. When to walk away. When to stop forcing things that aren’t ready. And when to trust herself.
I’m not claiming to have it all figured out.
There are still days when I question myself. Days when things feel uncertain. Days when I’d really appreciate life sending me a detailed itinerary instead of another surprise plot twist.
But something is different.
I can feel it.
That little spark of excitement when an idea clicks.
That quiet confidence when I recognize what I bring to the table.
That familiar voice in my head saying:
Oh, we could absolutely do something with this.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not chasing that feeling.
I’m just allowing myself to enjoy it.
A Different Kind of Comeback
I used to think my comeback would be some dramatic moment.
A giant breakthrough.
A major accomplishment.
Some undeniable proof that I had officially overcome everything life had thrown at me.
Preferably with an excellent soundtrack and cinematic lighting.
Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s how it goes.
I believe it’s a series of tiny moments.
Laughing without forcing it. Recognizing your worth without needing someone else to validate it. Feeling excited about something again. Remembering what you’re good at. Allowing yourself to want more without feeling guilty about where you are right now.
Maybe it’s sitting in the middle of an ordinary day and suddenly realizing:
Holy shit. I feel like me.
Not the old me. Not the me I thought I was supposed to become.
Just me. A little older. A little wiser. A little bruised.
But still creative. Still ambitious. Still capable of building something beautiful out of whatever life puts in front of me.
And this time, I don’t need to prove it to anyone. Not even myself.
I think I’m finally beginning to understand…
I didn’t lose her. I was becoming someone she hadn’t met yet.
And I have a feeling she’s going to like me.
The Grit Journal™ | Because growth is rarely graceful, healing is never linear, and sometimes finding yourself means becoming someone new.
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