Part III- The Void In Between: When Identity Falls Away
- thereawakenednurse
- Jun 3
- 5 min read
I had built my identity around never needing anyone. Everyone from my past had either hurt me, abandoned me, or died. So, I crafted myself into the kind of woman who survived alone. Heroic in her independence. But underneath all of that? I was in pain. Quiet, constant agony. And desperately lonely. Thoughts that I was unlovable and unworthy were my consistent companions.
And when I finally broke and left the career I had clawed my way through—the only thing I thought proved my worth—it all came undone.
Since October 2023, I had been living in a kind of self-imposed isolation, feverishly searching for what I felt I had lost—me. The one who kept me alive and safe. The one that always pulled herself up by the bootstraps, worked hard, and was a “good girl”
Where was the functioning one that got me through so many storms?
The Search
For a while, I was embarrassed. Shameful. I mean, how does a 40-year-old woman not know who she is? I knew that my reactions, my inhibitions to allowing myself to succeed and to be happy, and all the negative narratives in my memory and held in my body wouldn’t continue to work any longer. But oh, how I missed the survivor I thought I once was.
So, I bought all the books—Neville Goddard, Bob Proctor, Florence Scovel Shinn, Paramahansa Yogananda, Dr. Joe Dispenza—hoping one of them might show me the path back to myself. They were all brilliant in their own way, full of wisdom and insight. But also… confusing. I didn’t know where to start, or how to actually do what they were saying.
Was I just supposed to think a new thought and instantly feel better? To tell myself I’m fine and suddenly be free?
It didn’t work that way for me.
I tried so hard to “think right,” to stay calm, to manifest abundance through mindset alone—but the pressure to get it perfect only made me more anxious. I worked obsessively at suppressing my reactions to very real stressors. So much, in fact, that the act of not reacting became its own source of stress.
These teachings talked about enlightenment, changing paradigms, rewiring the brain… and maybe they were true. But I wasn’t a brain in a vacuum—I was a human with a dysregulated nervous system, a tired spirit, and a life that still felt like survival. And no affirmation was going to bypass that.
I was consumed with performing peace—perfectly—instead of embodying it.
Still Life
Lost, confounded, and sure I was doing the whole manifesting thing wrong, I listened to the internal cue to “be still.” I sat for some time, whenever I could, and just let my brain run. It felt like a carousel of open apps on a smartphone, a jukebox flipping through hundreds of records in my mind. All of made up scenarios, tragic events yet to unfold, old memories…
And then one day, it hit me.
By being still with my feelings—hurtful memories of events and insults, letdowns, disappointments, regret, intrusive thoughts, PAIN—and then acknowledging them, allowing all those emotions to flow through me (without really reacting to them and definitely not allowing them to sit with me), something started to work. I merely observed and felt memories, thoughts, narratives—composed by others and by me—about me without any reaction or provocation.
And it was more than that. I started to look at them as just tiny fibers that made up each page of my life story. When isolated by themselves, they seemed insignificant and not worth the time. But woven together? They created a miracle. A work of art, really.
And I began to appreciate that they existed—not because I was grateful these things happened, but because I was grateful I fashioned them as stepping stones to guide my path.
In the stillness I settled in forgiveness and acceptance—not just for all the threads of my story, some too ugly and painful—but forgiveness and acceptance of myself, in that I used up all this mess to create something really beautiful. And triumphant.
Even if the process of creating my own evolution was equally as painful and destructive on my mind, body, and soul along the way—it led me to finally say "enough is enough."
Then, I began to do intensive introspection to change my life. I sat still and let all the bullshit unravel and watched it all in its fury.
At this time, it became abundantly clear that my nervous system needed some intensive care and healing. As I started work on my nervous system, while simultaneously practicing stillness and grace with all stories and experiences, I began to notice something- I no longer had the same feelings about things that used to bring me joy. Not everything—but certain things.
I suddenly became significantly disinterested in anything that felt trivial or a waste of time. I even pulled away from this blog. Being in the quiet, alone, didn't feel so scary. Old things began to feel like they didn’t fit anymore. Kind of like your favorite pair of shoes suddenly being uncomfortable and not as flattering. Only much more complicated, because I couldn’t go online and buy a new pair of really cute cares to give.
There was also a heightened awareness of all things—especially in me, with me, and around me. This stillness and focus I had turned inward started to expand outside of me. And then the storm came…
The Storm
My emotions started to swirl in strange, colliding currents: numbness, rage, confusion, flickers of hope, glimpses of euphoria that vanished as quickly as they came. Sometimes I felt all of it at once—then I felt nothing at all. As if the winds were a mirage.
I remained still—in a strange, reverent quiet. An eerie stillness that still offered enough peace.
I finally admitted: this is the eye of the storm. I am in The Void. The liminal space between what once was and who is yet to become.
The moment after everything comes crashing down but before anything new begins. The place where time slows down and grief becomes holy.
Where awe and terror hold hands.
Where you stand alone in the center—breathless—looking up at a sky so beautiful it hurts.
It is a storm, truly. Internal. Invisible. But relentless. It was terrifying.
The silence was deafening. It feels like I am that little kid, scared shitless, finally standing toe-to-toe with the boogeyman in the dark—and I am not backing down.
I can feel the old paradigm tugging at me. Taunting me. Calling me to return. Begging me to come back and show up, keep fighting, keep hustling. To be better and return to what is familiar and safe.
But it isn’t home. And it isn’t safe.
New Book
The truth is—I have to say my final goodbyes. Goodbye to the one that kept me alive, surviving, and fighting. The one who used rage as fuel and abandonment as armor.
I honor her. I am grateful for her. I will always love her.
She will not be with me on this journey any longer. She cannot be.
Because this new book of my life has no room for pain or attachments to old stories, and it has no use for resentment. Even in the smallest of fibers.
And as C. Joybell C. wrote:
“No, this is not the beginning of a new chapter in my life; this is the beginning of a new book! That first book is already closed, ended and tossed into the seas; this new book is newly opened, has just begun.
Look, it is the first page! And it is a beautiful one.”
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