When we first met, Marjorie still introduced herself by her title, out of habit more than pride.
‘Hi, I’m Marjorie,’ she said, quickly adding, ‘I used to lead strategy for one of the largest firms in New York.’
It’d been six weeks since she’d left her role abruptly. Her calendar was empty and her days felt long. Her mornings, once stacked with meetings, were now uncomfortably wide open. The absence of emails made her uneasy. She’d scroll through LinkedIn, watching colleagues announce promotions and new ventures while she sat at her kitchen table with nowhere to go.
She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, proof she still mattered, maybe, or permission to stop pretending she was fine.
We spent our first few sessions just naming what was gone. The role had given her structure. The title had given her a shorthand for who she was. Without them, even ordinary moments felt disorienting.
‘I used to know exactly who I was,’ she said. ‘Now, I don’t even know what to say when people ask what I do.’
The first emotion that surfaced was grief. Not just for the job, but for who she’d been inside it. Her days had been built on recognition. She was the one people turned to, the one who knew the answers. Without that, she felt unmoored.
What Marjorie was experiencing, and what I’ve watched others experience, is that you can’t rebuild until you’ve actually let yourself feel what you lost. And Marjorie sensed there was learning for her if she could stand in her discomfort.
Her title wasn’t just a credential, it was evidence she mattered. Her salary wasn’t just income, it was confirmation of her value. And her meetings weren’t just work, they were daily proof that she belonged somewhere.
When everything fell away, she was left with hard questions: Who was she when no one was watching and there was no performance to give? Who was she when she had nothing external to point to as proof she mattered?
About a month into our work together, Marjorie was still asking herself if she could get through this.
Not whether she’d survive, she had a roof over her head, and money in the bank, but whether she could figure out who she was without all the usual markers. Without the roles she’d been carrying, without her credentials to lead with, and without the daily confirmation that she mattered.
She’d walk into the grocery store at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday feeling like everyone could see she had nowhere to be. She’d go to the gym and self-consciously realize she didn’t know what to do with herself when exercise wasn’t sandwiched between meetings. She’d meet a friend for lunch and panic when asked, ‘So what are you up to these days?’
Most people, when they hit this point, start immediately looking for the next role. They fill their calendar, take on projects, and volunteer for things, anything to not feel exposed.
Marjorie was choosing something different. Her choice wasn’t whether to leave her job, that was already done. Her choice was whether to rush into the next thing to stop feeling discomfort, or to stay with it long enough to see what it had to teach her.
The situation Marjorie found herself in isn’t unusual. I’ve watched many people hit this threshold, often in their 50s and 60s, after years of being one thing and suddenly not being that thing anymore. It’s disorienting in a way that’s hard to explain to people who haven’t been through it.
Here’s what makes it so disorienting: You can’t just slot yourself into the next role. You don’t know what you want yet because what you wanted was built on who you were. And that person—the one who knew exactly where she belonged and what mattered—doesn’t quite fit anymore.
So there’s this awkward in-between where you’re figuring out what’s actually yours versus what you thought you should be. What you genuinely want to build versus what you thought you should want. What you want the world to see versus what you were showing them because it was what you knew.
Figuring out what’s next often takes longer than you think it should. It’s been four months since Marjorie left, and she’s still not through. Most days still feel uncertain, but she’s not rushing to fill the space anymore. She’s learning to trust that this emptiness might actually be making room for something she couldn’t have seen when her calendar was full.
If Marjorie’s story stirred something, here are some questions to consider:
- What are you holding onto because you think it proves your worth?
- If you couldn’t use your job or title to explain who you are, what would you say instead?
- What if not knowing what’s next is exactly where you need to be right now?
Sometimes the hardest choice isn’t deciding what comes next. It’s deciding to be okay not knowing yet.
P.S. If this message found you wondering whether to fill the empty space or stay with what it might be showing you, here are ways I can support you:
- Schedule a Momentum Experience – When you’re between identities and the pressure to move quickly feels overwhelming, this session helps you see what’s actually yours to build next—without rushing past what you need to learn first. [Book your session]
- Read The Book of Choice – Discover how the choice to wait, even when it feels uncomfortable, can reveal what you actually want versus what you think you should want. [Get the book]
- Take The Choice Quiz – Understanding your decision-making style helps you recognize when you’re filling space out of panic versus building from clarity. [Start the quiz]
- Work with me privately – If you’re in that awkward in-between and everyone’s asking what’s next, let’s talk about how to trust your own timing instead of theirs. [Let’s connect]
- Explore Choice Mapping Mastery – Learn to hear your own wisdom when the pressure to have answers feels loudest, and develop the confidence to choose waiting when that’s what’s needed. [Learn more]
