Shedding Skin: Why Becoming Yourself Often Feels Like Loss

Dr. Carmela Maxell: Yeah. Welcome back to another episode of Rooted in Rising. Thanks for hanging around with me. Please make sure to hit the follow button on the platform you are listening to. I appreciate your support. I'm Dr. Carmela Maxwell. Today, I wanted to talk about something that no one tells us about growth. The secret that is really no secret at all. We just don't take the time to truly talk about it. To feel it, to process it. Everyone talks about becoming, becoming stronger, becoming healthier, becoming successful, becoming healed, becoming the person you've always wanted to be. But very few people talk about what becoming costs. Because growth is often marketed to us as an upgrade, a glow-up, a victory. A celebration. But if you've ever truly changed, you know that's not the whole story. Sometimes growth feels less like a celebration and more like a surrender. Sometimes growth feels like shrinking. Sometimes growth feels like the needle has not moved and the gas tank is on empty, especially with these gas prices. Sometimes growth feels like grief. Today's episode is called Shedding Skin. Why becoming yourself often feels like loss. Part one The snake doesn't hate its old skin. I've been thinking a lot lately about snakes. Stay with me for a second. Don't hit the stop button yet. When a snake sheds its skin, it doesn't do it because the skin is bad. Maybe it just needed some Vaseline. I'm kidding. But seriously, it doesn't do it because it failed. It doesn't do it because it made poor choices. And I think that's where many of us get stuck. We spend so much time criticizing our former selves, the younger version, the people pleaser, the perfectionist, the overachiever, the version that stayed too long, the version that tolerated too much, the version that was going in one direction or too many. the version that was afraid. But what if that version of you wasn't wrong? What if it simply got you here? What if that version carried you as far as it could? And now it's time to let go. And maybe that's the tragedy of adulthood. Not that we change, but that we spend so much time judging the versions of ourselves that got us here. The teenager who didn't know any better. The young adult who chased the wrong dream. The people pleaser who wanted everyone to be happy. The perfectionist who thought achievement would finally bring peace. We look back and cringe. We replay conversations. We question decisions. We wonder what would have happened if we had chosen differently. But sitting by the water one afternoon, I found myself wondering something else. What if I stopped criticizing her? What if I stopped treating my younger self like she was my enemy? What if she was simply a season? A version of me that carried me as far as she could. A version of me that was doing the best she could with what she knew at the time. And that's when I started thinking about a decision I made years ago. The decision to walk away from the piano. In my younger years, I thought I had it all figured out, as many of you may have experienced. In a previous episode, I talked about the experiences of going along a trajectory and realizing at the end that it did not and does not bring you happiness. Now I am revisiting a part of my life that I don't think I honored enough, that I criticized way too much. My youth. So I found myself sitting by the water one day, looking at where I came from, where I was, and where I was going. And those three selves did not seem to mesh. And I wondered why. I had an eye dream of Jamie moment where I tried to blink away some of the past mistakes and decisions that I made, all in an effort at the time to break out of whatever shell I thought I was in. You know, that self-exploration period. Some recollections were definitely cringeworthy. Others were softer, and I tried to hold on to those balloons as they floated away. I remember specifically making a decision to no longer play the piano. I didn't hate it. I hated the commitment to it. You see, I grew up singing and taking dance lessons and being involved in all these extracurricular activities. But for some reason, I just did not like the hours and hours of practice that were required by my hands to master something that was supposedly going to teach me some lesson about consistency. and discipline, what I would appreciate it in my older years. I played several instruments. The concert harp, the pipe organ, the violin, the handbells. In current day I've taught myself how to play the electric bass. Rock on. The problem is my parents wanted me to remain focused and dedicated to this craft. In my rebellion, I slacked. I had a keyboard at home and would insert my headphones into the Casio and goof off when they thought I was practicing. I eventually got caught and some tension ensued and they issued me an ultimatum. I could give up piano if I gave up dance. And I loved dance. I had a difficult decision to make. And I ended up letting go of both. I learned so much about my love of music and the keyboard and the piano and being musically inclined later on. And I actually grew to appreciate my autonomy in making a difficult decision in my youth. Looking back, I don't think the lesson was about piano or the keyboard at all. It was about learning that just because someone loves you doesn't mean they know what's best for you. My parents weren't trying to hurt me. They wanted me to be disciplined, successful, focused. They wanted me to have opportunities. But even then, there was a part of me searching for my own voice, a part of me trying to figure out what belonged to me and what belonged to everyone else's expectations. I didn't know it then, but that question would follow me for decades. Into my education, into my career, into my relationships, into the dreams I chased, and eventually. Into the realization that sometimes we climb a ladder only to discover it was leaning against the wrong wall all along. ⁓ Part two. Growth requires loss. Nobody talks about this enough. Every meaningful transformation requires loss. To become healthier, you lose habits. To become stronger, you lose comfort. To become authentic, you lose approval. To become successful, you lose certainty. To become yourself, You often lose people, and that's where things get painful. A few years ago, I befriended someone who I thought was pretty cool. At first, the friendship felt easy. We were both busy, both ambitious, both trying to build meaningful lives. We met through mutual friends. As parents, we supported one another's children, exchanged ideas, celebrated wins, and navigated challenges together. I felt safe enough to share my goals. My dreams, the things I wanted for my life. And for a while it felt like we were growing in the same direction. Then things changed. I made the decision to go back to school and pursue my MBA. At first, the encouragement was still there. The positivity, the cheerleading, the sense that we were still on the same team. But as I became more invested in school, something shifted. The comments started. You're doing too much. You're always busy. You're too focused on your goals. And I remember feeling confused. Because from my perspective, I wasn't moving away from the friendship. I was moving towards something I felt called to pursue. Yet somehow, those two things had become incompatible. Slowly, the image I carried of that friendship began to crack, and eventually it fell apart. The loneliness that followed was palpable. Not because I regretted pursuing my goals. But because I never imagined growth would cost me someone I cared about. And that's the part nobody talks about. Sometimes growth doesn't just require sacrifice. Sometimes it reveals that not everyone is meant to travel with us into the next season. Because we want growth without sacrifice. We want transformation without discomfort. We want the next chapter without closing the previous one. But life doesn't work that way. Every new version of ourselves asks us for something. Sometimes it asks for our fear. Sometimes it asks for our excuses. Sometimes it asks for relationships that no longer fit. And sometimes it asks us to release identities we've carried for years. Part three, the loneliness of reinvention. Can we talk about the loneliness for a moment? Because nobody puts this on Instagram. You can taste it, smell it, almost touch it. There is often a season during growth where you don't fit your old life anymore. But you haven't quite grown into the new one. You aren't who you were. But you aren't fully who you're becoming. It's uncomfortable. It's confusing. It's lonely. You may find yourself sitting in rooms where the conversations don't resonate anymore. You may notice friendships changing. You may realize your priorities are shifting. You may feel misunderstood. And that can make you wonder if you're doing something wrong. You're not. You're growing. And growth often creates distance before it creates clarity. ⁓ Four, stop mourning what you were never meant to keep. This was a lesson I had to learn. In fact, I'm still actively learning it. Sometimes we spend years trying to preserve versions of ourselves that have already expired. We keep trying to squeeze into identities that no longer fit. Almost like I did recently when trying to squeeze into a sweater that I had no business holding on to. We try to hold on to our old dreams, old expectations, old roles, old labels, because they're familiar, because they're safe, because they're comfortable. But comfort and growth rarely live in the same house. At least that's been my experience. At some point, we have to stop asking, how do I keep what I have? And start asking. What is trying to emerge? Because becoming isn't about preservation, it's about evolution. And evolution takes time, sometimes uncomfortable growth, and many levels of radical acceptance. Part five. Honor the old version of you. Before we end, I want to say something important. Don't hate the person you used to be. Honor them. The one who survived. The one who endured. The one who made mistakes. The one who was just trying to make a difference and didn't have all the answers or tools. The version that stayed when leaving felt impossible. The version that played small because it felt safer. The version that people pleased because belonging mattered. The version that didn't know what you know now. That version deserves compassion, not shame. You don't have to resent your old skin. You simply have to recognize that it no longer fits. Maybe that's where you are today. Maybe you're in a season of shedding, a season of releasing, a season of becoming. And maybe it feels more like loss than growth right now. If so, I want you to remember this. The discomfort doesn't mean you're broken. The loneliness doesn't mean you're lost. And the grief doesn't mean you're moving backwards. Sometimes it means you're growing into a life that your old skin could never contain. And that's okay. Because the skin that once protected you was never meant to become your home. It was only meant to carry you to the next version of yourself. Thank you for spending this time with me. This has been Rooted in Rising. I'm Dr. Carmela Maxell. Until next time, stay rooted, keep rising. ⁓ Remember to hit the follow button and join me every Tuesday for more conversations and thoughts for healing. Follow me on Instagram at the real Carmela Maxell. Check out my website for more information about the podcast, my book, and more at http colon slash slash Carmela Maxell.com.