“What we fear doing most is usually what we most need to do.” Timothy Ferriss

I woke up this morning in a cold sweat, heart pounding, soaked T-shirt clinging to me, hair extra disheveled. Okay, maybe it was one of those infamous perimenopause night sweats—but still. Back to the dream.

I’ll spare you the 15-minute version I gave my husband and tarot card reader, and just say this: I dreamt I was pulling dozens of aggressive, clingy, tapeworm-like creatures out of my ears. One at a time. As soon as I got one out, another would start slithering from the other side. When I threw them to the ground, they tried to reattach to my skin. If I managed to shake them off, they’d inch toward my feet like little horror movie extras, determined to crawl back into me.

Yes, it was terrifying. And yes, my subconscious was clearly shouting at me.

Message received, Inner Self—loud and clear, even through all the killer worms stuck in my ears.

After consulting the almighty Google Machine and my intuitive friend Rita, I landed on this: the worms represented former identities. Old versions of me. Old thought patterns. People tied to those versions. Outdated habits. All of them trying to crawl back in, even though I’ve already outgrown them.

Letting go is hard. And staying gone? Even harder. We humans have this strange way of inching back to what we’ve outgrown—clinging to the familiar, even when it no longer fits.

I can recall dozens of times in my life when I’ve gone through major growth spurts—emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. And every time, it becomes unbearable to stay where I am. It’s like I go from being a character in a movie to realizing I’m the actor playing the role. Suddenly, I’m aware: I’m not the character—I’m a real, breathing person underneath the script, the costume, the expectations.

In those moments, I feel an urgent need to rip off the fake clothes, wipe away the makeup, and sprint off set like my life depends on it. I start to see everyone around me as actors too, each playing their part. But unlike me, they still believe they are their characters. I’m the only one who knows we’re all on a soundstage.

And once I see that, I can’t unsee it. I can’t stay in a world of pretend and polished performances. So I leave. I quit the movie. I retreat into a season of solitude and winter—where I can strip down, reflect, and remember who I really am without the costumes.

One of the most recent and profound experiences of this identity shift was stepping away from real estate. “Tracy, the Real Estate Broker” had become a character—one I no longer recognized or related to. I had poured my heart, soul, and entire life into her. And for a long time, I loved every second of it.

I was living a dream many envied. I had a thriving business, an incredible team, a busy social life. I was happy. Until I wasn’t.

The thing about awakenings is—they don’t feel good. They don’t come wrapped in clarity or peace. They strip away illusions you didn’t even know you were living inside of, and they leave you standing in the middle of a barren emotional desert: confused, disoriented, and alone.

During that awakening, I began to see time differently. I realized how often we—especially in American culture—trade our most precious resource for things. We sacrifice presence for productivity. We value people not for who they are, but for what they can achieve or produce.

I didn’t know how to live outside of that mindset yet, but I knew I needed to figure it out. I could feel that I was part of an intricate machine that needed me to keep turning its gears. And at some point, I just… stopped. I stepped away. I let it crumble without me.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the empty space that followed. That strange in-between where I was no longer part of the machine, no longer “Tracy the Real Estate Broker,” but not yet whatever came next. That’s where I’ve been living for the last two years—between identities, slowly growing into something new.

Honestly? It feels a lot like wearing toddler jeans with those built-in waist expanders. I’ve clearly outgrown my old life, but I haven’t quite grown into the next one. So here I am—buttoned into something with extra room, a little awkward, a little stretchy, and not exactly flattering. Becoming who you’re meant to be doesn’t happen all at once. It’s one loop at a time, one tiny adjustment after another. Some days I feel like I’m swimming in fabric I’m not ready to fill out. Other days, I try to go back and squeeze into the old pair—and surprise! They no longer fit.

That in-between space is uncomfortable. But it’s also where the real work of becoming happens. Quiet, stretchy, messy growth—one waistband notch at a time.

What does that space look like? Well, it sure isn’t Instagram-worthy. But honestly, most of real life isn’t.

For me, it looked like a lot of flakiness. Starting new hobbies, only to abandon them weeks later because they didn’t feel right. Canceling friend dates and backing out of commitments—not out of malice, but because being with old friends, doing old things, felt suffocating. It felt like an invitation to slip back into an old version of myself I was trying to outgrow.

It showed up physically, too. I refused to wear anything that reminded me of my old real estate life. I changed my wardrobe completely. I downgraded my car so fewer people would recognize me. I let my hair grow out and go grey. I stopped wearing makeup and began practicing showing up as my real self—in every setting.

I enrolled in college classes, trainings, certification programs—dozens of them—for potential new careers. But eventually, I realized I wasn’t trying to find a new purpose. I was trying to cast myself in a new role. Anything to avoid just sitting in the silence of not knowing. Anything to avoid the discomfort of simply becoming… me.

The real me. No mask. No role. No makeup.

So here I am—in stretchy jeans, worm-free ears, and a quiet life that doesn’t always make sense yet.

Becoming someone new isn’t a linear journey. It’s weird and wobbly. Some days, it looks like liberation. Other days, it feels like loss. Most days, it just feels like not knowing who you are, but knowing for damn sure who you’re not.

There’s grief in leaving behind the roles that once made you feel valuable. There’s fear in not having a clear script to follow next. But there’s also power—deep, soulful power—in choosing to sit in the uncomfortable space between no longer and not yet.

So if you’re in that place too—awkwardly expanding, peeling off layers, canceling plans, googling your dreams—welcome. You’re not lost. You’re becoming.