The other day, I was walking down an old town street when I randomly stopped and caught my reflection in a freshly cleaned café window. That fleeting moment was enough to notice who I am now - and to remember who I used to be. Flashes of my past self rushed through my mind, someone I barely recognized - naïve, hopeful, insecure, a people-pleaser.
For the first time, I had two versions of myself to compare. And yet, the comparison didn’t feel like an evaluation- it felt like mourning. Despite all the good memories, that brief glance filled me with an unexpected sadness, as if the girl I used to be had died, and I was attending her funeral.
Why do we grieve parts of ourselves that no longer fit us?
I’m not talking about ego death, where one experiences a complete loss of self-identity. I didn’t transcend time or space. I didn’t lose control over my thoughts and emotions. What happened was something more ordinary, yet just as profound - self-change. In other words, identity death.
That girl - the one I used to be - outgrew everything she once knew. Her mind, emotions, relationships, even her entire reality had shifted. And so, like a snake shedding its skin, she had to let it all go.
But every time we grow, we also lose something.
Our minds resist change like an unbridled horse - it romanticizes what was, even if it was never that good to begin with.
We struggle to build new habits, but even more so, we struggle to let go of old ones. Every attachment issue we had, every unhealthy coping mechanism that got us through dark moments, every situationship we thought we’d never get over - it all became a drug of comfort for the brain. Familiar. Predictable. Comfortable.
Like that old, worn-out shirt with moth holes. It’s not in its best shape, but it’s been with you for so long that the idea of replacing it feels… wrong. A new one wouldn’t have the same familiarity. And yet, eventually, the old must be thrown away.
But were we truly happier then?
It’s difficult to say. Nostalgia blurs the lines between happiness and comfort. We miss that relationship with a few good moments, conveniently forgetting the hundred toxic ones. We long for old friendships that drained us, simply because they gave us someone to go out with. We romanticize places that once made us sick to our stomachs, because, in some twisted way, they felt like home.
The truth is, we don’t always miss who we were - we miss our ignorance. The innocence of believing. The illusion of certainty.
Who Are We Becoming?
Stepping into a new identity doesn’t feel natural at first. Like a stiff pair of shoes, it takes time to break in.
As we mourn our past selves, we resist our future ones. We remember, we compare, we hesitate. We cling to old versions of ourselves- not because they were better, but because they were known.
We don’t yet understand who we are becoming, or what we truly need. Because if everything we once believed in turned out to be wrong, how can we trust the choices we make now?
Maybe we don’t grieve the past at all. Maybe we grieve the certainty it gave us.
But here’s the thing - every transformation requires a transition. Rarely do we find a shoe that fits so perfectly that it doesn’t leave calluses in the first few hundred meters. Softening it up takes time. Sometimes, it even takes a bit of pain.
And yet, that girl - the one I used to be - got me here.
If she could see me now, she wouldn’t be sad. She’d be proud.
So why cry over something I’m actually grateful for? It makes no sense to be angry at her mistakes when she was simply doing the best she could with what she knew at the time.
To grow is to step into the unknown. To try things we’ve never done. And, inevitably, to make mistakes along the way. No one is born knowing.
Instead of mourning our old selves, what if we honored them instead? What if we start from the easiest but the most important- thank you.
A simple ritual — writing a thank you letter.
“Don’t be sad. I am thankful for all the mistakes you made. Every wrong choice led you to the right ones, guiding me straight to where I am now. And honestly? This is the best possible outcome I could have hoped for. Maybe I’ll find an even better place in the future, but the past no longer makes me sad — because I’m proud of it.
Thank you.”
And here’s to you — the girl who didn’t know yet. I don’t miss you, but I do thank you. You were as brave as you could be in your own way.
And now, it’s my turn.