How Letting Go of My Old Identity Brought Me Back to Life
From the moment we enter this world, we start carrying things that aren’t really ours. As babies passed from one set of arms to the next, the expectations begin to form. There’s pressure, even before we can speak, to become something specific. That weight only grows heavier. It lingers like a shadow. A voice. A presence whispering who we should be.
In my house growing up, that voice had a lot to say about weight. I constantly heard my family talk about diets, cleanses, detoxes, supplements — anything that promised quick weight loss and the perfect figure. At the time, it didn’t apply to me. I was the skinny one. Dance kept me fit, my meals were planned for me, and being a size 4 with curves felt natural. I had no idea that identity wouldn’t last forever.
Then came college and, with it, my first real shake-up of mental health and identity. I was at the University of Michigan, majoring in business, living in a dorm, eating strange cafeteria food (how is it possible to load 1000 calories into steamed broccoli?), and doing a lot less dancing. Instead of dealing with stress in a healthy way, I turned to food. The problem was, my metabolism didn’t have my back anymore.
Suddenly, I didn’t recognize myself. Looking in the mirror, I was face-to-face with a version of me that didn’t match how I felt inside. It wasn’t just about the weight — it was the identity confusion. Dance had taught me to feel where my body was in space. But now? This body didn’t move like me. This wasn’t my reflection. I began doing exactly what I saw my family do — trying every diet on the market. Lose, gain, repeat. For my 21st birthday, I asked my parents for a Weight Watchers membership. It worked. But only temporarily. Like so many, I became trapped in the cycle.
The burden got heavier, feeding off of my insecurities and disappointment. I still had confidence, sure, but it was layered beneath the confusion about who I really was. Dating, job interviews, new friendships — none of them saw the real Jenn. They saw a version of me I didn’t relate to. That conflict between my outside appearance and internal identity made me question everything.
Post-college brought its own identity challenges, and another hit to my mental health. I moved to a new city, started a new job, adjusted to new routines — and whoa, let’s not forget the breakroom pizza. I didn’t even like pizza that much, but when it’s free and you’re stressed, it’s hard to say no. My first job was in photo production, then hedge funds. These roles introduced me to toxic environments, where it wasn’t unusual to be screamed at for something I didn’t do. Over time, I started to treat myself the same way they treated me: like I didn’t matter.
Work exhaustion ran deep. My commute was long, the demands never ended, and I was constantly on edge. One day it hit me: I was clinging to a version of myself that no longer existed. That driven college student chasing the corporate dream? She had outgrown her dream, and it no longer fit. I was boxed in by an outdated idea of success. And it was time to let that version of me go. It was time for an identity rebirth.
But here’s the thing about personal rebirth — it requires a kind of death. Not a tragic one, but a necessary one. To change our lives, to reshape our identity, we have to let something die. And that’s where mental health came into focus for me. It was the end of the girl who did everything “right” but still wasn’t fulfilled. The end of the woman who spent her days being berated in a job that didn’t light her up. The end of the chronic yo-yo dieter. That version of Jenn had to go.
Of course, change isn’t easy. “Choosing to be happy” sounds great on paper. Living it? Totally different story. Still, I knew I wanted more. I wanted to feel peace in my body, to help people, to define success for myself. I knew I didn’t want to live another day trapped in the routine of someone else’s dream.
That’s when I found TLS. At first, I rolled my eyes. “Great, another weight loss program,” I thought. But something was different. I met people who had lost weight and kept it off. One woman had lost 150 pounds and kept it off for good. She looked vibrant and alive. It wasn’t just about food — it was about mindset, habits, and understanding nutrition in a way I had never learned before. This wasn’t just another diet. This was education. It was creative writing for the body, a way to rewrite my story — and this time, I was holding the pen.
This education gave me the power to say, “I kicked my food issues.” And from there, a new identity was born. I became a health coach. I started helping others who were struggling with their own mental health, wellness journeys, and identity questions. My sense of self wasn’t based on my dress size or calorie count anymore. It came from the joy I felt guiding people through their own rebirth.
The woman I used to be — the one buried under stress, diet culture, and career pressure — slowly disappeared. It was the most beautiful death I’ve ever experienced. Because it made space for the truest version of me to emerge.
Death doesn’t always have to be sad. When it comes to our identity, a death can be the exact thing we need to live fully. My old life ended, but a new chapter began. This was my rebirth. The stress, the food guilt, the endless hustle — it lost its power. The voice on my shoulder finally quieted. My smile returned. And I felt like me again.
This wasn’t the end. It was just a new beginning. The clarity that came from focusing on mental health helped me finally understand who I truly am — passionate, giving, vibrant, determined. Today I help others through wellness and creative writing, sharing stories of identity, loss, and rebirth on the Salad with a Side of Fries podcast.
The death of my old story gave life to the one I was meant to live. And maybe that’s the lesson we all need — to stop fearing change, stop mourning the death of old versions of ourselves, and start celebrating every rebirth that brings us closer to who we’re meant to be.