Letting Go of the ‘Old Me’ — and Why Healing Feels So Damn Weird
No one talks about the part of healing that feels like mourning your own ghost.
Let’s be honest:
Healing isn’t always light pouring in through the window while you drink lemon water and romanticize your journal.
Sometimes it’s dead quiet. Sometimes it’s sobbing on the bathroom floor.
Sometimes it’s waking up and not recognizing yourself anymore — and still choosing not to go back.
I’m here to be real – so this is me being real:
I’m in that place right now.
The in-between. The unraveling. The becoming.
I’ve been slowly — painfully — letting go of the version of me that kept everything together. The one who over-functioned. Who over-explained. Who read people’s moods like a survival skill. Who made herself small enough to be loved and selfless enough to be tolerated.
She was strong. But she was tired.
And she was never allowed to rest.
The Old Me Was a Master of Survival
There’s a part of me that still wants to defend her.
Because she did what she had to do.
She scanned for danger. She predicted every possible betrayal. She micromanaged the emotional temperature of every room — so she wouldn’t be blindsided. Again.
She became what people needed so she wouldn’t be discarded.
She stayed loyal to dysfunction because it felt like home.
And for a long time, that worked.
Until it didn’t.
Healing Doesn’t Always Feel Good. But It Is Good.
What no one tells you is that healing often looks like nothing is happening.
You stop responding. You stop chasing. You stop overexplaining.
And at first, that silence is deafening.
You don’t feel powerful. You feel… lost. Untethered. Like a stranger in your own skin.
Your nervous system doesn’t trust the calm.
Your body is still waiting for the fallout.
You grieve who you used to be — even if that version of you was exhausted, resentful, and quietly breaking.
Because she was you.
And it’s hard to let go of someone you built your whole identity around.
The Signs That Told Me I Was Healing — Even When It Felt Like I Was Falling Apart
- I stopped trying to fix things that hurt me. I started leaving them.
- I let people misunderstand me — and didn’t run to clear my name.
- I said no, even when my hands shook and my chest burned with guilt.
- I craved peace more than passion. Stillness more than approval.
- I started resting — not collapsing.
- I stopped begging for crumbs from people who had no idea how to hold me.
I used to think healing would feel like freedom.
Sometimes it feels like grief.
But I’m learning that grief is part of freedom — you have to bury what you’ve outgrown to make room for who you’re becoming.
This Version of Me Isn’t Polished — But She’s Real
Right now, I’m raw. I’m softer than I’ve ever been — but stronger, too.
I’ve left things and people that meant everything to me. I’ve walked away from being the emotional caretaker. The steady one. The one who held space for those who couldn’t do the same.
And I didn’t walk away with anger. I walked away with grief.
Because I still love the good things. But I love me more now.
This isn’t the shiny part of the story. This is the chapter where I gather myself — alone, quietly, without anyone watching.
This is the part where I come home to my own body.
Where I feed myself, stretch, walk, cry when I need to, and breathe without holding it.
Where I rebuild a life that doesn’t revolve around being needed — but being known.
Letting Go Isn’t Rejection. It’s Reverence.
The old me isn’t my enemy.
She was my armor. My shield. My strategy.
But now, I don’t want to live like I’m preparing for war every day.
Now, I want softness. I want slowness. I want safety that doesn’t require performance.
And that means grieving the girl who couldn’t rest.
The one who earned her worth.
The one who kept choosing people who couldn’t choose her back.
I don’t hate her.
But I refuse to keep living by her rules.
I don’t know exactly who I’m becoming.
But I know what I’m no longer willing to be.
And if that means walking through the weird, the quiet, the lonely middle — I’ll do it.
Because I’m not interested in being the old me anymore.
I’m interested in becoming free.
If you’re in the thick of it too — in the letting go, in the ache, in the stillness — I see you.
You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re rebuilding.
And one day, you’ll wake up and realize:
You’re not grieving the old you anymore.
You’re living the life she never thought was possible.
-Carey Ann