The Strange Grief of Outgrowing Old Versions of Yourself
One of the things I've noticed over the years is that growth has a brilliant publicist.
It's always sold to us as this shiny thing. Freedom, empowerment, and beaming smiles on top of metaphorical mountains. As if once you "do the work", you'll sail off into permanent inner peace, rock-solid boundaries, and never again find yourself rehearsing arguments in the shower.
And look, growth can be brilliant. Setting a boundary you've needed for ages can feel like finally exhaling properly. Leaving a situation that's been quietly draining the life out of you often brings a sense of relief. Speaking up after years of biting your tongue? There's nothing quite like hearing your own voice land clearly for the first time. Those moments are worth celebrating, no question.
But here's what I've gotten more curious about, both in my own life and in the therapy room: growth isn't always fireworks and triumph. A lot of the time, it feels surprisingly uncomfortable, which can feel a little unfair after all the courage it took to get there.
People spend months, sometimes years, turning things over in their heads. Weighing up the pros and cons. Talking themselves into it and out of it again. Imagining every possible outcome. Then they finally have the conversation, set the boundary, leave the job, relationship, or role that no longer fits, or stop saying yes when they mean no. And often there is relief. Sometimes it's loud. Sometimes it's just a quiet sigh.
But once the dust settles, something else creeps in, maybe a wobble, a unexpected low mood. A sadness you didn’t bargain for. Not because you made the wrong call - more because real change asks you to loosen your grip on what’s been familiar for so long. Even when you’re ready to let it go, the adjustment can sting.
We. as human beings, are rarely simple creatures. You can feel relief and loss, excitement and fear, pride and grief all at once. Growth has this way of stirring up little pockets of homesickness - not necessarily for the person or situation you left, but for the familiarity of it. The certainty of knowing who you were, the role you played, the rules you lived by. Human beings get attached to all sorts of things: people, routines, identities, even the versions of ourselves we spent years complaining about.
Over time, the world around us adapts to our adaptations too.
I see it in the therapy room often, what I call the growing-pains stage. You start showing up differently. You stop organising your whole life around everyone else’s expectations. At first it feels confusing. If this is the right thing, why do I feel guilty/awkward/low? Other people’s reactions don’t always help. The friend who loved your endless availability might not be over the moon about your new boundaries. The family member who relied on you keeping the peace can get a bit rattled when you start speaking honestly. Relationships that were quietly held together by the old version of you have to shift too. That can feel lonely and messy for everyone.
None of this means you've done it wrong or made a mistake. Maybe it simply might mean that you're all adjusting to a different shape.
Stretch Marks of the Soul
I've started thinking about these experiences as the stretch marks of the soul.
The traces left behind from all the times we've had to stretch, adapt, and reshape ourselves to meet life as it arrived. They're not signs of failure or weakness. More often, they're evidence that we did the best we could with what we had at the time. Trying to belong. Trying to feel safe. Trying to stay connected. Or simply trying to get through.
Carl Jung said that becoming who you truly are is one of the privileges of a lifetime. I think he was right, but I also think he may have neglected to mention that it can be awkward, lonely, and occasionally quite emotionally inconvenient.
If you're in that strange in-between space right now, not quite the old you, but not yet fully settled into the new one, I want you to know that's okay. The discomfort doesn't necessarily mean you've made a mistake. The grief isn't evidence that the old way was better. More often than not, it's a sign that something important is changing. I've certainly had moments where I've looked longingly at an old version of myself, despite knowing full well she was exhausted. Maybe it isn't about discovering who we are, at all. Perhaps it is more about discovering what we've needed all along.
Over time, the new ways start to feel more natural. The boundary you used to overthink for days becomes ordinary. The conversation you rehearsed endlessly becomes something you can simply have. You trust yourself a little more. And every now and then, in the middle of all the uncertainty, there can be a quiet sense of pride too. Not the triumphant standing-on-a-mountaintop kind. More the kind that comes from realising you're doing something differently, even when it would be easier not to. The kind that notices, "A year ago, I wouldn't have handled that this way."
You stop squeezing yourself into spaces, roles, or relationships that no longer fit. Not because you care less about other people, but because you're finally caring about yourself too. Sometimes the work isn't about learning how to become someone new. Sometimes it's learning how to stop judging the person who got us here. Because there is a difference between a life that fits and a life that merely feels familiar.
Growth isn't about becoming perfect, or some flawless future version of yourself who has everything figured out. It tends to be a bit simpler than that. Perhaps it's a gradual unfolding into a life that feels more honest, more spacious, and more like your own. The stretch marks don't disappear, and nor should they. They're evidence that you've lived, loved, stumbled, adapted, and kept going.
Growth announces itself not with fireworks, but with a quiet, lovely sense of coming home to yourself.
