The Stories That Carried Me Through: Letting Go Of An Old Identity And Starting Anew
Episode 06: The Stories That Carried Me Through
This episode is a compilation of personal essays addressing grief, transformation, and identity shifts. You’ll enjoy listening if you resonate with being a creative or you’re moving through a significant shift such as a career change, moving to a new place, or letting go of a significant relationship.
Episode Summary
In this final episode of 2025, I’m taking a moment to pause, reflect, and gently close out a year that asked so much of me. I talk about how this season has been shaped by grief, change, and the slow shedding of an old identity, and how I am beginning to look toward the future with more clarity and softness.
I share a collection of five short personal essays written during 2024, each capturing a different moment of healing, uncertainty, and self-discovery. These pieces explore what it means to slow down, to sit with vulnerability, to release the need for certainty, and to honor the quieter truths that surface when we stop performing for the world.
This episode is an invitation to reflect on the stories that shaped you this year and to notice what feels ready to be released as you move forward. Sometimes closing a chapter looks like listening, remembering, and allowing yourself to carry only what still feels true.
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Welcome to The Shoreline, where we explore the tender in-between seasons of the human experience. My name is Kim, and I'm here to support you as you navigate your next becoming. Here, we don't fix, we listen. We don't rush, we allow. Welcome to today's episode. It's the last episode of 2025, and I'm feeling really excited to kind of put this year behind me and move forward. It's been quite an intense year for me. One of the most, if not the most challenging one with my dad passing away and just navigating so many different life changes and moving through the grief. And it feels like this whole year has been a lot of letting go, a lot of grieving, not only losing my dad, but just losing parts of myself and shifting out of an old identity. And as I look forward to 2026, I've been thinking a lot about how I might want to show up differently. What do I want to create in my future? And what am I really ready to kind of put to rest? And I've been thinking a lot about creativity and the writing process and showing up to my writing. I shared a couple weeks ago that I'm working on a novel and just that writing is something that's really important to me. So as we kind of spend time in the quiet and close out the year, I thought it might be fun to actually share some of my writing with you. So today, I'm going to share five pieces. They're old newsletters actually from 2024, but they're five different short personal essays that I just really feel like I want to document and to share with you. So that's what this episode is, and I hope you enjoy them. Let's get to it. Essay number one, In My Kittens and Crutches Era. I'm in my kittens and crutches era. You might be wondering what kittens have to do with crutches. The short version is that my cat went into labor the night before I had ankle surgery, and I welcomed two kittens and two crutches into my life simultaneously. The long version of how this all happened is quite a story in itself, and maybe I'll tell you someday. Right now, I want you to join me on another journey. Going into surgery, I had an idea of how it would go, and a plan for how I was going to heal and get back on my feet, literally, in record time. It was a great attempt on my part to try and maintain control of a situation that was completely out of my hands. I spent the next two weeks in bed, and due to the layout of my house, couldn't leave my bedroom even if I'd wanted to. That meant I couldn't take my dog, Koshee, on her walks, and I couldn't even get myself a glass of water. I had to ask someone to stay with me. Asking for help for even the tiniest of things pained me. I felt like a burden and completely useless. I had brand new kittens that I couldn't see or take care of. Not only could I not be a caretaker, but I was the one who needed looking after. I had been stripped of my independence and autonomy. It was as if the universe placed me in a perfectly designed hell that brought all of my deepest unhealed wounds to the surface. I felt like life was passing me by while I was stuck in bed counting down the hours until it was time to start a new day. I had nothing to look forward to other than my post-op appointment in two weeks. I wanted so desperately to be free, but no amount of pushing or willing could change the fact that my body needed time to heal. So, I surrendered. I stopped trying to do too much and embraced my newfound slower pace. I stopped apologizing anytime I had to ask for food or water. I let someone else take care of Koshi. I tried to just let my body do its thing. I spent time dreaming of my cast coming off and all the things I would do. I decided my post-op appointment would be the solution to all my problems. It wasn't. When the nurse took my cast off, my ankle felt vulnerable and exposed, like a crab without its shell. I immediately wished I could go back to just being in bed with my ankle protected. I didn't feel ready to take the next step, but I had to keep going anyway. Healing, whether it's physical, emotional, or spiritual, is not a linear path. It's more like a spiral. I've heard this more times than I can count, but I think I'm only now understanding what it means. You may visit familiar themes or wounds, but you never go backward. You can't really, because you're always collecting new perspectives and uncovering new bits of your inner wisdom. So here I am in the middle of this particular healing voyage, what I'm calling my kittens and crutches era. The kittens are starting to take their first steps. I'm amazed at how they're able to follow their instincts so easily. I've noticed that they don't push too hard. They test their strength taking a few steps before toppling over and deciding they need a nap. They always honor what their little bodies need. I'm not unlike the kittens right now. Some days, I'll wake up and feel good enough to test out the strength of my ankle, walking around the block with my crutches. Then, others, my ankle will be sore and my body craves being horizontal. It's an ebb and flow, kind of like the tide flowing in and out. The kittens and I are getting stronger every day, even if it doesn't feel like it. I know that soon this time will be a distant memory, and walking will be something I take for granted again. What I hope to take from this time is that there's power in slowing down. I want to remember what it feels like to fully trust my body, to guide me, and that like the kittens we also carry everything we need with us. All that wisdom we search for outside ourselves is waiting for us in the stillness, in the quiet. All it asks of us is that we are courageous enough to listen. This essay was originally published on May 14th, 2024. Gosh, reading that essay was so interesting. I haven't really gone back and read it since I sent it out in my newsletter almost over a year and a half ago. And it does feel like it was so long ago and so much has changed. The kittens are over a year and a half now. I'm able to walk around on my ankle. The kitten's mom has since been adopted by my friend. I live in a different house. So there have been so many changes. And it actually felt really good to kind of read about this snapshot in my life and think about all of the lessons I learned and the slowing down. And I'll admit, since my ankle got better, I really have been just pushing and doing more. And I forgot about that time when really I was forced to slow down and how beautiful and magical that can be. So it was really interesting to go back and read that for you. All right, let's move on to the next essay. This one I sent out a week after I sent out the one about my kittens. And essay number two is called, I was about to delete everything. You almost didn't get last week's email. It was an hour before my newsletter was scheduled to be sent. I was making myself coffee when I fell into a complete panic spiral. This particular spiral is not foreign to me. It tends to show up when I'm doing something I really care about, or when I'm feeling like I'm sharing too much. Spiral in motion, I sat down in front of my computer. Convinced that hitting delete was the right call, I took a sip of coffee and allowed the caffeine to fuel my intrusive thoughts. There's no dramatic twist. You already know how the story ends. I didn't hit delete, the email got sent. My panic spiral was telling me the email wasn't ready. It wasn't good enough. It wasn't newslettery enough. Such a wonderfully vague critique. I felt like the most lackluster version of myself. Was my writing any good? Did what I have to say even matter? I was deep in the trenches of self-doubt. I sat there in front of my computer, my finger hovering over the delete key. I started to think about all the effort I'd put into this newsletter, the time I'd spent writing, how much fun I had designing a new template, and thinking about the experience someone might have. Then, something shifted. I stopped thinking about how well received my writing would be. The critical thoughts washed away as another voice came forward. It was a younger version of me emerging as if she was showing me a piece of art she was proud of. I remembered how important writing was to me, how important it still is to me now. In the end, my desire to not disappoint that little me was stronger than my desire to preserve some sort of cool image or comfy cocoon I'd created for myself. It can feel scary to choose to reveal the softer sides of ourselves in a world where we're expected to have it all together. I imagine that's how a cat feels when they expose their belly to you. But here's the thing. Being vulnerable is a practice, and I was simply out of shape. I had been hiding away for so long that I forgot the art of sharing my true self. I'm so glad I followed through on sharing my email because you met me with such kindness and softness. You reminded me how good it can feel to show up and share the truest part of myself. I hope that you remember to share more of your true self with the world because we need it. And if you don't, that's okay too. Maybe you need some deep cocooning. Wherever you're at, I hope you can take time to champion the dreams of younger you because you deserve for them to come true. This essay was originally published on May 22, 2024. As I kind of go back and read this piece, it's interesting because I still have all of those same feelings when it's time for an episode of this podcast to go live, or when I hit publish on a substack essay, it does feel really exposing and vulnerable and kind of scary. And I think this is a really wonderful reminder for me of why writing is important to me and who I'm actually doing this for, which is that younger version of me that really wanted to be a writer. And I love that part about her kind of showing me her art. And when I think about it that way, it kind of becomes less scary. So I'm really glad I was able to go back in and read this one. And I hope that you got something out of it. Essay number three. Are you like me? I always skip to the end of the story. I've never had an affinity for crazy plot twists. I always look a movie up on IMDB before watching. And these days, I prefer to rewatch a familiar show over seeing something new. Maybe that's why I love rom-com so much. There's a certain comfort in knowing the story will be tied up in a nice little bow by the end. When I was younger, I remember getting to the part of a book where, as a reader, you don't like what's happening. You know those parts that make you squirm in your seat as you read them, or when you want to yell at the main character and tell them they're making the wrong choice. I couldn't stand discomfort, so I would skip ahead. Once I found a moment of resolution, I would exhale knowing it was all going to work out and resume reading. When I felt myself starting to get squirmy, I would think about what was coming next, and that got me through the uncomfortable part of the story. So much of the work I've been doing these last four years has been about embracing the unknown. I'd like to say that it's become easier to live in the moment and trust in what is yet to come, but I'm still very much a work in progress. I still try to control my path and my life. I try to read ahead in my own story, creating a vision for what I think I want and working backwards until I have a blueprint to follow. What I've learned is the desire to know what's next is the exact obstacle in my way. It may feel comforting to read ahead in a story, but trying to control my life leads me to feeling exhausted and discontent. The read ahead philosophy doesn't really apply to life. When I think about what I love most about romcoms, it's not their predictability. I find their formulaic nature comforting, but what keeps me watching is the hopeful feeling it gives me that life can feel magical all the time. If life is a movie, maybe we're not meant to be the viewer. As a viewer, we get to see exactly what is meant to happen in a romcom, but the characters have no idea what is around the corner. The lead doesn't know that the neighbor they hate is their love interest. They can't predict the meet cute waiting for them at their coffee shop. Even the scenes where they're at home doing nothing feel meaningful, and they feed the plot in some way. I wonder what it might feel like to treat life more like being in a movie versus watching a movie. What if we were like the character in the movie and truly experiencing each moment instead of being the viewer trying to predict what will happen? Trying to be the main character is not a new idea, but perhaps it can be a good reminder that being present is the best change we can make in our lives. As humans, I think we naturally spend a lot of time thinking about what has already happened and what will happen next. It's how we're designed, and there's nothing wrong with that. It's a great skill to have, but that's not necessarily where the magic lives. The magic is in the not knowing. Lately, I've been feeling pretty frustrated with where I'm at in this season of life. I had a timeline all planned out for how I would heal from surgery. By now, I thought my ankle would be ready for long walks, but it's actually quite the opposite. It needs me to do less, to be softer in my healing process. So, I've been throwing myself a lot of pity parties and trying to let go of the expectations I had for this summer. Some days, I love the slower pace. Other days, I feel trapped in my house and like everyone is moving forward without me. Healing can feel lonely. When I take a moment to think about how this would play out in a movie, it would be a montage of all the days at home blended together with a good soundtrack. It's the bit in between big plot points, which is still important and moves the story along. Maybe there's even some magic to be found. This essay was originally published on June 6, 2024. Essay number four. What is your guilty pleasure? I have an obsession with looking at houses online. Opening up my Zillow app and perusing new listings while sipping coffee has become part of my morning ritual. I'll look at a listing and try to picture myself there. How would I arrange the furniture? What decor would I need? Which nearby coffee shop would become my spot? If I moved to New York, what would the New York version of me be like? I love the potential of a fresh start, a clean slate. With every new listing, there's a little glimmer of hope that a dramatic move might inspire a new, better me. It's a fun way to give imagination creative control for a bit. And 99% of the time, I close the app feeling grateful to live where I do. Truthfully, I'm not sure I would even like New York me that much. Then there's the other 1% of the time. Lately, this seemingly innocent hobby of mine has taken on a different flavor. Looking at other homes has activated what I like to call my what's wrong attention. It's what happens when I lose my feeling of gratitude, and I focus all my attention on everything I don't like about my place of residence. There are the smudges on the walls that won't go away no matter how many times I clean them, and the fact that I hate having to street park my car. It feels like watching a beautiful magazine image of my home slowly photoshopped to reveal all its imperfections. Over time, this what's wrong attention starts to seep into other areas of my life. I feel myself becoming cranky and annoyed by everything. It turns out, if you try hard enough, you can find an endless stream of things to complain about. In a rock bottom moment, I dove into the archives of my camera roll, letting my nostalgia add a little extra sparkle to each memory. And before I knew it, I was in full-blown, how did I end up here mode, questioning all of the decisions I've ever made. I yearned for other eras of my life, times when I felt like a shinier version of myself. Then one night, I had a dream that I was moving. I was in what was supposed to be my new home and I felt terrible. I remember crying in my dream because I didn't want to move. I couldn't imagine leaving a place that has been my sanctuary during a time of deep healing. The new place felt dingy and lacking compared to what I had. When I woke up, I felt so relieved that it was only a dream. That dream shook me out of whatever funk I was in. I started to see my house in a new light. I remembered how much I loved that my bedroom feels like staying in a nice hotel or how much I love how much natural light I get even on the grayest of days. I stopped focusing on what was wrong and started to remember everything that was right. I realized that I wasn't unhappy at all. I actually really love my home and the quiet life it offers me. While it may not be what I had planned for myself, it serves me quite well. I remembered why I decided to close my jewelry company almost four years ago and why I promised to listen to my body and let go of the hustle culture conditioning. I think the lesson here is that we may not always know what will make us happy, but if we keep chasing little moments of joy, we may stumble upon a life even better than we could have imagined. Oh, and caffeine and Zillow don't go well together. This essay was originally published on June 12, 2024. Essay number five. Beaches, bonfires, and bullshit. Lana Del Rey said it best. I got that summertime, summertime sadness. Every June light clockwork, I fall into a pit of sadness. I start to panic about having plans and making the most of my summer. My future happiness and success are now solely based on how many beach bonfires I've been invited to. If you're wondering, the answer is and always has been none. In fact, I'm not sure I even know beach bonfire people. It's a rigged game. My entire life starts to unravel as I reflect on every wrong turn I've ever made. Suddenly, I'm looking at apartments for rent in Paris and plotting my escape from this terrible bonfireless life, wondering how I'll fit a dog and four cats into my suitcase. This year, I actually caught on to this thought game before I fell too deep in the pit. I started to notice the cyclical nature of my thoughts and how uncreative they were. Why is it always a bonfire at the beach that I need to be invited to? While awareness is a helpful first step, it doesn't make the intrusive thoughts go away. It can dull the pain, but sometimes being cut by a dull blade hurts even more. Conceptually, I know this is part of my annual cycle. I know that once the end of July hits, a switch will flip and I will become a social butterfly for a month. While this awareness can be helpful, what I really need to do is move through the feelings. Growth comes from embodiment. I remember a question my therapist would ask me sometimes when I was frustrated and feeling stuck. She would say to me, What are you being called to learn? This question has stuck with me over the years, acting as my North Star during difficult times. I like to think that my experiences are constantly shaping me like a potter molds their clay. It feels too sad to think that life is completely meaningless. My mom used to tell me everything happens for a reason, which is probably the least helpful thing you can tell someone going through a difficult time. While I don't believe that every little thing is faded, I do believe that when reflecting back, we can give context to our experiences and recognize how they've shaped us into who we've become. I think I prefer the approach of the first question because it's led by curiosity versus being fed a silver lining I didn't ask for or want. It's empowering to believe that I get to choose what the events of my life mean. I'm not sure why things happen the way they do. I can't make sense of all the horrors of the world and why tragedy strikes when it does. But I'm trying to remain curious about how this season is shaping me. This year has been hard in ways I couldn't imagine. It feels like a clearing in a way. A season of tough love and forced growth. In a time when we are constantly being perceived and aware of that perception, it takes courage to step into the truest version of ourselves. Living in authentic and vulnerable life isn't for the faint of heart. I've been having moments where I have to tell myself to cut the bullshit. I have to be brutally honest with myself and get clear about what I want, instead of what I want to want. As much as I'd love to be the carefree, bonfire-loving version of myself, I'm not going to force it. I'm done chasing what I think will make me happy. I'm learning and growing and crying a lot if I'm being honest. There are even times when I'm excited about who I'm becoming. I know I'll be okay even if it doesn't feel like it at times, and soon it will be time to welcome in an entirely different season. In the meantime, I'll keep hunting for small moments of joy while life molds me into its next masterpiece. This essay was originally published on July 16th, 2024. Wow, reading this last one, it's funny because at the time, I remember feeling like what I was going through was the hardest thing that I'd ever done. And it's funny because this year has been even more challenging and even more devastating in a lot of ways. But it's also been a clearing, and a lot of this still rings true to me. I'm still me, and I still have moments of feeling like, oh, I wish I could be this way, or why don't I want this, and why am I at where I'm at? And I have to remind myself that it's not about performing or becoming the version I want myself to want to be. It's about honoring what feels true. So that's where I want to leave this. I feel really, really honored that you took the time to listen to my writing, and it feels really special to share this work with you, and I'm excited to keep writing and keep sharing, and keep moving forward in 2026. I hope you have a wonderful close to 2025, and take good care while the waves carry you closer. Know that your next version is already waiting on the shore.
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Kim Kogane is a writer and intuitive guide helping you navigate the tender in-between seasons. She lives in Seattle, Washington with her dog, Cauchy, and three cats. Learn more about Kim.
