In the Space Between Who I Was and Who I Am

A reflection on growth, perception, and how it feels when the world keeps talking to the old version of you.

I’ve learned that when people meet you during a storm, they hold on to that version of you – the one they thought needed saving – even after you’ve already found your own way out. Maybe that’s just what people do, remember you by the season they found you in. And the truth is, that doesn’t just happen with new people. The ones who’ve known me the longest feel it too. They’re tired of the story, maybe even tired of me, and I understand why.

I’ve had one crisis after another, each one demanding a different part of me, and I’ve had to solve them mostly on my own. They’ve watched from the outside, sometimes with sympathy, sometimes with fatigue. They have their own lives to manage. But it leaves me feeling like some people have quietly decided that I am the sum of my problems, when in reality, I’m the one solving them.

I know how easy it is to sound bitter when you say that. I don’t feel bitter, I feel unseen – not unseen, rather, misseen. There’s a difference. I’ve spent years doing the work to heal, rebuild, and learn new ways to exist, but it’s hard for people to update their mental picture of you once you’ve been the one who needed help. And maybe that’s why my patience is thinner now, because I’ve moved forward, but some relationships are still standing in the wreckage, pointing out the damage.

For me, that storm looked like starting over from zero and staying in motion when everything felt like a negotiation. There’s gratitude in that phase, and vulnerability too, but also exhaustion, and I think that’s where some people first imprinted their version of me – the one who needed saving, guiding, explaining. The one they could feel useful to.

I’m still deeply grateful to those who showed up for me when things were hard. Gratitude and vulnerability, to me, have never been weaknesses. They’re just parts of being human that most people don’t want to live out loud.

A while ago my career coach told me something that re-framed how I think about my place in the world. She said, “You’re not unqualified, you’re a problem solver.” And she was right. I always have been – just usually for everyone else. That conversation didn’t so much change how I saw myself as how I understood what I bring to the table. I’m the one people call when things fall apart, the one who can look at chaos and find a path through it. I had never thought of that as a skill before, because it didn’t come with a certificate.

I know that truth about myself now, but I still don’t always project it. I still show up as the one who explains, softens, reassures. I lead with honesty, but sometimes honesty sounds like apology.

And that’s the tricky part of growth. Self-awareness doesn’t automatically rewrite how others perceive you. You can know your worth and still communicate from an old script. You can be standing solidly in your strength but still sound like you’re asking for permission to occupy space. I’ve done that more than I’d like to admit.

I’ve seen how easily some people draw their lines. They say no without a second thought, and it never seems to cost them anything. I envy that, honestly. When I do it, it feels like I have to build a case for it first. I’ve realized that’s part of the loop: I try so hard to be fair and grateful that I end up cushioning my boundaries until they sound like invitations.

I’m also someone who processes out loud. When I trust people, I talk through ideas as they’re forming. I say things over and over until they start to make sense, until the raw pieces turn into something solid. It can sound like I’m stuck. Maybe that’s why some people keep responding to the older version of me. They’re hearing drafts of thoughts, not the finished version. These blog posts are proof of that. Many of them capture a sad, uncertain chapter, not the whole arc.

This post – the one you’re reading right now – is a marker that I’ve moved beyond that phase. I’m not fragile; I’m still learning, still building, but I’m no longer breaking. I just wish it were easier for people to notice when someone’s moved forward, so we could meet each other in that space instead of trying to fix what’s already healed.

Because the truth is, I’ve already done the work they keep trying to start for me. Growth doesn’t always look like progress from the outside. Sometimes it’s just the slow change in what you’ll accept, what you’ll repeat, and what you finally stop explaining.

And when people don’t grow with you, it changes the rhythm between you, shifting you out of sync with each other. It may have been a synchronization you were both comfortable in, but once it shifts, it becomes uncomfortable. And suddenly that shift is no longer frustrating, but painful because you can see where it’s going. This person you enjoyed spending time with is suddenly someone you have to have a filter for, because you can’t trust that the space between you is safe anymore to grow together.

There’s a little crack of grief in that realization, that moment when you think, oh man, I can’t share this with them anymore, because they’re going to jump straight into problem-solving mode when all I really need is a sounding board. I think that’s what most of us want, really – someone who listens without trying to fix us. Someone who can sit in the silence while we figure things out for ourselves. It’s rare, and it’s sacred when you find it.

Maybe that’s why I notice it so sharply when it’s missing.

The shitty thing about the whole entire thing is this – problems don’t stop. There’s never going to be a point in my life where I don’t have one, or where I won’t need help from somebody. For me, the challenge is that as I grow, my ability to problem-solve keeps changing too. Everyday, I learn more about this place, and I learn more about myself. So when new problems show up and I go to people for help, it would be wonderful to be met as someone who has grown, not as someone who always needs rescuing.

The thing is, I know that impulse, the “let me explain your life to you” one. I’ve done it myself, especially when I thought I was helping. I’ve overstepped before, professionally and personally, thinking I was offering clarity when really I was just inserting myself where I didn’t belong. These days, I try not to do that. I try to listen first, to ask, “How can I help?” instead of assuming I already know. Maybe that’s what I want in return – the same kind of grace.

I crossed an ocean to build a new life. That part took courage. But staying, rebuilding, continuing – that’s the harder courage, the quieter kind. It doesn’t look like survival anymore. It looks like self-respect.

That’s where I am now — in that space between who I was and who I am. It’s a moving target, a work in progress, a growing muscle – and I’m learning to lead with what’s still taking shape.