Your New Life Will Cost You Your Old One

Outgrowing identities and the beautiful ache of becoming

You meet a boy in college and suddenly you’ve built out a life plan before you've even shared a utility bill. Married by 25, first baby by 27, living in a charming bungalow with a golden retriever and a farmhouse sink—all mapped out in the time it takes to swipe right.

In a world of instant gratification, it’s almost reflexive to start filling in the blanks of your life just to get to “the good part.”

But those blanks? They’re where the growth happens. When you rush to script your future too early, you might accidentally write yourself out of the story you were meant to live.

Even if you're not daydreaming about playing house, you're probably doing the same thing with your career. You're asked to pick a major, essentially your identity, at 18 years old, when your brain isn’t even fully developed and you have zero real-world context. You don’t know what you want for dinner, let alone what will bring you true fulfillment ten years down the line. But you choose something anyway, because that’s what you’re “supposed” to do. And once you choose, it becomes harder and harder to pivot—even when your gut is begging you to.

The problem isn’t dreaming. It’s assuming. Assuming life will go exactly as planned. Assuming timelines equal success. Assuming your friends will be your friends forever. Assuming you’ll love tomorrow what you love today. Assuming discomfort means you’ve made the wrong choice, when it might actually mean you’re growing.

The truth is, your twenties are meant for figuring it out, not faking it. This decade isn’t a waiting room for real life—it is your real life. And if you spend it chasing someone else’s blueprint, you risk missing the unique, incredible, unpredictable life that’s trying to unfold for you.

I think about her often— the version of me who thought she had it all figured out because she had a timeline and a Pinterest board to match. Knowing the challenges she’d face, the heartbreaks she’d endure, the growing pains inherent to liminality, what advice would I give her?

One thing I wish I’d understood more deeply is this: life is going to change, often in ways you can’t plan for or expect, and almost always for the better.

But here’s the catch—your new life will cost you your old one.

As dramatic as that might sound, it’s the truth. Growth requires release, and sometimes, that release feels like loss. You’ll mourn friendships that fade, relationships that no longer fit, versions of yourself that no longer serve you. You’ll confuse the excitement of the unknown with fear, and grieve the comfort of the familiar, even when you know it’s not aligned anymore.

Life evolving means things will never be the same, and that’s not something to resist—it’s something to honor. The beauty is in the becoming. In learning to sit with the in-between. In trusting that what’s falling away is simply making space for what’s meant to arrive. Believing that although you are no longer who you used to be, you are not yet who you are meant to become.

I also think about her often— the version of me creased from years of laughter. Wondering what joys may be in store, what skills I have picked up and perfected, what memories I have yet to make.

I wonder what advice she’d have for me, yet I have an inherent sense of knowing what she’d say. No matter how hard you may try to, you’ll never be able to plan out your life. If you spend all your time chasing the next thing you’ll miss out on the joy of the now.

Why waste a second of it?

Yet the struggle remains of latching onto the status quo, even when deep down you know better, even when it's quietly suffocating the parts of you that are trying to evolve. We cling to familiarity like a safety net, even when it becomes confining. But deep down, something stirs. A whisper that says there’s more.

More aliveness. More alignment. More truth.

More doesn’t always come dressed in certainty. Sometimes, it comes in the form of letting go before you have a clear next step. It comes in walking away from what looks good on paper but feels heavy in your soul. It comes in surrendering to the uncharted, in trading assumptions for curiosity.

It’s the purpose of your twenties to get honest with yourself about what you’re holding onto out of fear, and what might open up if you dared to release it. To rewrite the narrative not with perfect clarity, but with courage.

Because the truth is, life isn’t a checklist. It’s a conversation with yourself, with the world, with the unfolding of time. The most extraordinary things often happen when you stop trying to control the script, and simply show up fully present for what’s next and with gratitude for what has been.

You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to keep showing up with bravery and with an openness to becoming.

Because who you’re becoming? She’s worth the wait.