The Day I Forgot Who I Was

Three weeks away from home. When I returned, everything had shifted.

My boyfriend and daughter had found their rhythm without me. The kitchen was reorganised. New routines were in place. They were getting on perfectly well, better actually, because I wasn't there managing their relationship, smoothing over tensions, making sure everyone was happy.

I should have been relieved. Instead, I felt completely disconnected.

My role, the one I'd built my identity around, had dissolved whilst I was gone. And standing in my own kitchen, I had no idea how to fit back in. The confidence I usually carried? Gone. I felt like a fraud in my own life.

It could have spiralled for days, even weeks. But I'd spent years being coached and coaching others, so I reached for the tool I knew worked: I started writing.

Not about what I should be. Not comparing myself to my boyfriend's clarity or my daughter's independence. I wrote about who I actually am, what I believe, what brings me joy, what I stand for, what makes me laugh, what I won't compromise on.

Within hours, not days, I found myself again. Not the version who managed everyone else's relationship, but the distinct person I am. Different, not diminished. Connected, not controlling.

This is what happens in leadership transitions too.

You get promoted. The role that fit you perfectly, the expert who knew all the answers, the detail oriented manager, the collaborative team member, suddenly doesn't work anymore. You're expected to speak with authority to senior stakeholders. To have answers immediately. To project confidence you don't feel.

And if you're operating in English as a non-native speaker? The disconnection multiplies. You're already unsure of yourself in this new role. Now you're also searching for perfect vocabulary, second guessing your grammar, reading faces for signs that you've said something wrong. The hesitation whilst you search for the right word gets interpreted as lack of confidence. The careful phrasing you use to avoid mistakes makes you sound tentative when you need to sound certain.

The shame is suffocating. At my level, at my age, with my experience... I should have this figured out.

But here's what shame does: it convinces you that the problem is you. That you're fundamentally inadequate for this role. That everyone else navigates these waters with ease whilst you're barely staying afloat.

The truth? You're not inadequate. You're disconnected.