The Woman I Used to Be Lives Here Too

The grief of becoming someone you don’t recognize, and still having to function anyway.

There’s a kind of grief no one preps you for, or even talks about, for that matter.

Not the grief of losing someone you love. Not the kind that people know how to talk about. I mean the kind of grief that slips in through the side door.

The grief of watching your own self disappear in slow motion.
The grief of waking up inside a body you no longer recognize.
The grief of realizing that, apparently, you are no longer the person you used to be.

And no, it’s not because of some big breakthrough or a spiritual transformation or anything remotely empowering.
It’s because of aging.
And chronic illness.
And the quiet betrayal of your own biology.

I’ve been Ms. Hyper-Independent for most of my life. Gold star. Poster child.
I carried my own weight, and yours, too, if you asked nicely.
I solved my own problems. Fixed my own car. Moved furniture by myself because I didn’t want to wait for help.
I took care of everyone. And I prided myself on being able to.

So when, late last year I started to forget things that should’ve been obvious, you know, names, directions, the entire reason I walked into a room, I did not handle it well. I did initially chalk it up to perimenopause. That’s what everyone was telling me it was. But then I noticed it was progressing.

When my body started flaring, when my hands tingled for no reason, when I couldn’t seem to string thoughts together in the way I used to… I didn’t wave it off.
I went full Nancy Drew.
Ran every test. Got the brain scans. Endured the hell that is nerve conduction testing (if you know, you know, it’s like being electrocuted by a sadistic robot with electrodes, a needle, and a clipboard).

I did the half-day cognitive testing, where they sit you in a room and ask you to repeat patterns and solve puzzles. I didn’t treat that one as testing for cognitive decline; it was a test for me to prove how smart I was.

I wanted answers. I needed answers.

And do you know what they told me?

“Your cognitive issues appear to be normal aging.”

Excuse me?
Normal aging?

That is possibly the least comforting diagnosis of all time.
It's a polite way of saying: "You're deteriorating at an appropriate pace. Congrats."

Two years ago, they told me my hormones were “normal,” too.
I had to pull out my spreadsheet, yep, I’m a spreadsheet gal, with lab results going back nine years to prove that while maybe they were “normal”, they were not normal for me.

So now they’re telling me that the brain fog, the imbalance, the neuropathy, the exhaustion, the slow processing, the memory lapses, they’re all just... part of the aging process.

Or maybe it’s the ADHD.
Or the autism.
Or the anxiety.
Pick a label. Spin the wheel.
Apparently, the more I think about what I can no longer process, the worse the processing gets.

It’s exhausting.
Because I know how I used to function.
I remember.

And now I’m supposed to just accept this slow unraveling because it’s “normal?” I think not.

Let me be clear:
Just because something is “normal” or common doesn’t mean it’s not devastating.

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This isn’t about not wanting to get older.
This is about losing access to parts of myself that made me me.

The lightning-fast brain.The sharp tongue.
The energy to power through.
The dexterity to pick up tiny objects.
The ability to do things on my own without planning my whole damn day around them, or worse, needing help to do them.

I grieve the me who could lift a heavy box without calculating the recovery time.
The me who could stay up reading until 2am and still function the next morning.
The me who could multitask like a magician on espresso.
The me who never had to rehearse a sentence before saying it out loud because she knew the words would be there.

That version of me didn’t have to think about things like electrolytes or gait changes.
She just existed.
Confident in her mind. Capable in her body. Able to do what needed doing.

And yeah, I miss her.

The world does not pause for this grief.
There is no mourning period.
You are expected to adapt with grace, gratitude, and absolutely no complaints.

You are expected to call it “the next chapter” and smile.

Well.
I call bullshit.

Because the truth is, this grief is brutal in its subtlety.
It’s not loud, but it’s constant.
It hums under everything.

Like when I ask someone to carry something heavy and feel ashamed for needing help.
Like when I search for a word and feel the flush of panic when it won’t come.
Like when I have to cancel plans because my energy collapsed without warning.

This grief lives in the daily recalibrations.
The choices.
The concessions.
The effort it takes to look like I’m still fine.

It’s the grief of no longer trusting your body to keep up with your spirit.
The grief of watching your edges blur while the world expects you to stay sharp.

And it’s not just physical.
It’s not just neurological.
It’s existential.

Because when your sense of self has been wrapped around being intelligent and capable and independent, and that starts to erode, who are you, really?
When the world values you for what you can produce, and you start producing less, what’s your worth?

I don’t have a clean answer.

I only know this:
I am still here.

Even if I move slower.
Even if my brain takes detours.
Even if I can’t do it all anymore.

And this version of me, soft, forgetful, achey, and occasionally full of rage, is still mine.
She deserves gentleness.
And space.
And a little less gaslighting from her own brain.

If you’re reading this and nodding, you’re not alone.
If you’ve ever been told you’re “fine” when everything inside you screams that you’re not, I believe you.
If you’ve had to grieve the loss of your former self in silence, I see you.

We are not making this up.
And we’re not being dramatic.
We are navigating the sacred, unglamorous terrain of change.

The grief of becoming someone new without asking for it.
The ache of missing the person we used to be while still trying to show up for the life we have now.

There’s no template for this.
No five stages.
No support groups.

Just us, and this messy middle.

Where grief and acceptance sit across from each other at the same table.
Where mourning and adaptation hold hands, however reluctantly.
Where the woman I used to be lingers quietly at the edge of the room; not gone, not forgotten, but folded into who I’ve become.

Love today,
Heather 🌸

✨ If this spoke to you, send it to someone else who’s grieving quietly. Let them know they’re not alone in it.