Losing Yourself to Find Yourself

Life has a way of making us see ourselves differently than we imagined. Sometimes, change is a choice, but often, it's something we're thrown into, like it or not. I've experienced both in several areas of my life, but the most profound shift happened years ago with a decision about my belief system.

I want to be careful not to project my experience onto anyone else or make this a topic of debate. That would be missing the point.

Stepping away from a belief system I had held since childhood and even built a career around was a defining moment in almost every area of my life, specifically my identity.

I remember the exact moment I let go. It was a watershed moment when I realized I could no longer hold on to what I had believed, and it was terrifying. I hadn't arrived at this decision overnight; it had taken years to get to this point.

My entire world, for the most part—career, community, family, identity—was wrapped up in being a Christian. Letting it go felt like the death of part of myself.

I've let go of a singular kind of belief—the kind that required certainty at the expense of questioning. What I once called faith was, for me, a rigid framework that left little room for growth.

But I haven't let go of belief itself. I still believe in people, in progress, growth, and in the value of seeking truth. The difference is that my belief now allows for uncertainty rather than fearing it.

So what happens when the identity you've spent years living is no longer relevant?

Why Identity Feels So Tied to Stability

Identity isn't just about who we are—it's about stability. It's what makes us feel grounded, and when it's taken away, we feel like we've lost our foundation.

Letting go of my former belief system wasn't just about theological ideas—it was about losing a community, a way of life, and a support system.

People experience the same feeling after a divorce when they're no longer a husband or wife, and the entire family dynamic shifts.

It happens when we move across the country, leaving behind everything familiar.

It happens when we lose a job, especially one to which we've tied our sense of self-worth.

The common thread? We don't just lose a label. We lose the perceived stability that came with it. When that happens, our instinct is to cling to whatever's left—our ego, our past, the comfort of familiarity.

But life doesn't let us hold on forever. At some point, we must face the question: Who am I now?

"We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don't really get solved. They come together, and they fall apart. Then they come together, and they fall apart again. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy." — Pema Chödrön.

The Gift of Redefinition

What if losing an identity wasn't an ending but an invitation?

We like to believe in certainty—that our job, beliefs, relationships, and success will always be there. But that's an illusion.

We anchor our identity to external things, and when they shift, we feel lost. But maybe that's the point. Perhaps identity isn't meant to be something we hold onto. Maybe it's meant to evolve.

Keep in mind how fast things pass by and are gone—those that are now, and those to come. Existence flows past us like a river: the 'what' is in constant flux, the 'why' has a thousand variations. Nothing is stable, not even what's right here... So it would take an idiot to feel self-importance or distress. Or any indignation either. As if things that irritate us lasted. — Meditations, Marcus Aurelius

We may fear change because we see it as a loss. But what if it's an opportunity to become more of who we're meant to be?

Embracing Identity Shifts

So, what do you do when life forces you to redefine yourself? How do you anchor yourself when everything around you is shifting?

Two metaphors are at play in my mind: the rock and the reed. The rock represents your core—your values, character, and essence of who you are beyond any title or role. The reed represents flexibility—the ability to bend with life's changes rather than break.

Be Open

When I wrestled with my beliefs, I had to learn how to sit with uncertainty. This was the time to be a reed. To listen, to learn, to not force an answer.

When your identity is shaken, the instinct is to dig in—but maybe the right thing is to do the opposite. Let things unfold, and trust that clarity will come in time. It takes courage to embrace this uncertainty, but it's also courage that can lead to profound growth.

Rather than being disheartened by the uncertainty of life, what if we accepted it and relaxed into it? What if we said, 'Yes, this is the way it is; this is what it means to be human,' and decided to sit down and enjoy the ride? — Pema Chödrön

Strengthen the Core

Who you are isn't about titles or roles but what you value. Throughout my life, I've realized my core identity wasn't "pastor," "husband," "executive," or "IT guy." It's deeper than that. Your real identity is in the things that remain when everything else is stripped away.

For me, strengthening my core meant finding a balance between intellect and emotion, between will and heart. My foundation isn't a single principle but the harmony between stoic virtues that guide reasoned action and the limitless qualities that expand my capacity for connection.

This framework emerged through years of questioning, stumbling, and beginning again. My daily philosophy for living is my North Star when everything else shifts—not because the specific virtues are perfect, but because returning to them gives me clarity when my identity feels most uncertain.

Let It Happen

The river keeps moving. Whether we fight it or not, change will come.

So, the answer is to surrender to the process rather than resist. To trust that losing an identity doesn't mean losing ourselves. It means stepping into something new.

This surrender is not a sign of weakness but a testament to our resilience and adaptability.

Maybe the goal isn't to redefine identity but to move beyond it altogether. This realization brings a sense of freedom, a liberation from the constraints of identity.

We are something deeper. Something fluid yet steady. Like a highway stretching beyond the horizon—always there, yet never confined to one place.

I am not your rolling wheels
I am the highway.
I am not your carpet ride
I am the sky. — Chris Cornell and Audioslave

The song "I Am the Highway" by Audioslave says it well. It's become deeply personal to me because it encapsulates so much of what I feel and have lived surrounding my identity.

People may want us to be their magic carpet, to carry them where they want to go. But that's not our job. We are not just along for the ride. We are the sky itself.

We are not the titles we wear. We are not the labels others give us. We are more than the roles we play. More than the expectations others place on us. More than the past we leave behind.

We are the road forward. And that is enough.

It's Your Turn

As you read this, you might be standing at your own crossroads of identity. Maybe it's not a belief system that's shifting for you. Perhaps it's a career transition, the end of a relationship, or simply a growing awareness that who you've been isn't who you want to be.

What parts of your identity are you holding onto that no longer seem to feel comfortable? What would happen if you loosened your grip just a little?

Whatever form your transformation takes, remember this: the discomfort you feel isn't a sign something's wrong—it's evidence you're growing. The uncertainty isn't weakness—it's the space where your self emerges.

I Am the Highway

Pearls and swine bereft of me
Long and weary my road has been
I was lost in the cities
Alone in the hills
No sorrow or pity for leaving, I feel, yeah

I am not your rolling wheels
I am the highway
I am not your carpet ride
I am the sky

Friends and liars don't wait for me
'Cause I'll get on all by myself
I put millions of miles
Under my heels
And still too close to you, I feel, yeah

I am not your rolling wheels
I am the highway
I am not your carpet ride
I am the sky

I am not your blowing wind
I am the lightning
I am not your autumn moon
I am the night
The night

Yeah, I am not your rolling wheels
I am the highway
I am not your carpet ride
I am the sky

Well, I am not your blowing wind
I am the lightning
I am not your autumn moon
I am the night
The night

Song by Audioslave ‧ 2002