There’s a particular kind of ache that comes when you feel like you don’t recognize yourself anymore. You’re not quite the person you used to be, but you’re not yet the person you want to become. Your half-living old identity peeks over the wall into a new one, with curiosity and trepidation. Psychologists call this tug-of-war a normal part of growth, but when you’re in it, it can feel like a full-on identity crisis.
I wrote about this in between existence in The Identity Gap.
Today, I am going further, deeper, and incorporating an Identity Self-Mapping Tool that includes Past-Self Mapping, Present-Self Check-In, Possible Selves Exercise, and an Integration Prompt. The Tool is a synthesis of established research and frameworks, with a bit of creative shaping reflective of my experience working with clients.
You won’t find it anywhere else! But you will find it most useful! I promise.
The Identity Self-Mapping Tool is FREE for my paid subscribers. You will find the link to the PDF document at the end of the post.
Free subscribers can grab The Identity Self-Mapping Tool for $5 by clicking HERE.
The Pull of Opposite Selves
In the 1980s, psychologists Hazel Markus and Paula Nurius coined the term possible selves. These are the mental snapshots we hold of who we might become. Some of these visions inspire the hoped-for selves that pull us forward, like “the thriving entrepreneur” or “the calm, grounded parent.” Others feel haunted by the feared selves that push us away, like “the burnout who never took a risk” or “the loner who gave up.”
In times of transition, these possible selves battle for airtime. The hoped-for self lures you with excitement, the feared self keeps you up at night. Neither feels certain, which is why transitions exhilarate and terrify simultaneously.
Imagine a 47-year-old woman whose kids just left for college. For the past two decades, her identity has been woven into the role of “mom.” Now, with the daily caretaking gone, she feels both liberated and untethered.
Her hoped-for self whispers: “This is my time. I could finally start the art studio I’ve always dreamed about. I could reinvent myself, travel, maybe even write that book.” That vision lights her up—it carries possibility, freedom, renewal.
Her feared self shouts back: “Don’t be foolish. You’ll become the cliché of the lonely, irrelevant, aging woman. You’ll run out of money. No one will need you, and you’ll fade into invisibility.” That voice fills her with dread and keeps her clinging to routines that no longer fit.
Caught between these poles, she feels paralyzed. The hoped-for self tugs her forward with excitement, the feared self drags her back with anxiety. Neither is fully real yet, but both shape her choices: does she sign up for that painting class, or does she re-double her efforts to be “needed” by volunteering at her kids’ old school?
Take a 65-year-old man who just retired after decades in a demanding career. For years, his self-concept was bound in being “the provider” and “the expert.” Suddenly, the emails stop, the meetings vanish, and no one is asking for his advice.
His hoped-for self whispers: “Now I can finally live without the grind. I could mentor younger people, travel, enjoy my grandchildren, spend mornings painting landscapes, and even rekindle old friendships. I can choose what matters most.” He loves this version of himself, so vibrant, generous, and still growing.
His feared self warns: “Without work, you’re useless. You’ll become the irrelevant old man on the sidelines, bored and waiting for your health to decline. You’ll have nothing to offer and nothing to live for.” This version feels like a shadow following him around the house.
Every small choice, whether to sign up for a community class, call an old friend, or just sink deeper into the recliner, feels like a referendum on which self will take hold. The hoped-for self invites him to reimagine his purpose, while the feared self warns him of impending decline.
The tension between them reveals what he values most, and forces him to decide whether the next chapter will be written as an epilogue or as a reinvention.
The Story We Tell Ourselves
Psychologist Dan McAdams reminds us that identity is also about the story we tell ourselves. He calls this narrative identity: the evolving autobiography we write to make sense of who we are, where we’ve been, and where we’re going. Narrative identity helps make sense of the world and our place within it.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Life Intelligence to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.