I'm Not Lost — I'm Between Versions of Myself

I’m not lost.

It just feels that way sometimes — because I’m stepping away from everything I once used to define myself.

Right now, I don’t feel drawn to skating.
Poker feels flat.
Even relationships I once considered meaningful hold little pull.
Level 4 — something I worked hard for — no longer feels like a finish line, just another step.

It’s not that I’m depressed.
It’s more like… decompression.

For years, I’ve been fighting to stay afloat — navigating shame, proving myself, carrying unprocessed grief, and surviving on fractured self-worth. And now that I’ve started healing… the momentum is gone. The chase has slowed. The old costumes are on the floor. And what’s left is just me — in transition.

I’m between versions of myself.

And in this space, I’m not supposed to feel on fire.
I’m supposed to rest.
To listen.
To let the layers fall off without rushing to replace them.

There was a moment yesterday at the recycling centre that stayed with me. A man came over and told me I couldn’t leave an item where I’d been told I could by someone else. Technically, he was right. But it felt like ego — like he needed to assert something. And I noticed the spark of irritation rise in me. But I didn’t fight. I just said, “Fine,” and took the item back to the car.

That wasn’t defeat.
That was choice.
That was energy conservation.

Because I don’t owe my fire to people who are running on fumes.

And I don’t need to fight every moment to prove I belong.
I’m already here.

This in-between space — where nothing feels urgent or exciting — is uncomfortable. But it’s not empty. It’s fertile. It’s where grief releases, purpose reforms, and peace slowly replaces performance.

I’m not lost.
I’m healing.
And I’m becoming someone I’ve never been allowed to be.

This time, not for others.
For me.

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