Who Am I Without This?
On repetition compulsion, letting go of old identities, and why I now walk instead of dance
If you’ve ever clung to a version of yourself that your body already left behind, this one’s for you.
Attachment and loss. Attachment and loss.
This is the story of humans. Over and over, again and again.
We revisit the old stories, replay the greatest hits of our past selves, and wrap ourselves in the cozy but somewhat stifling comfort of what we already know.
But the soul has a way of pushing us forward whether we’re ready or not.
At first it whispers gently. Hey, something feels off. Maybe it shows up as lethargy or a vague discontent, the kind where you find yourself saying I should be happy. Why am I miserable today?
And of course we ignore it. Or justify it. It’s probably because I ate gluten yesterday.
So the soul speaks louder. A racing heart. An upset stomach. Still, we pretend not to hear.
And then it gets serious. Suddenly you’re distracted, over-medicated, shopping for things you don’t need, or spiraling down a YouTube rabbit hole of people reorganizing their pantries. Guilty. Anything to drown out the question the soul keeps asking:
What will you become next? What are you curious about?
Instead of answering, we go back to the old.
Repetition Compulsion
Freud had a term for this. Repetition compulsion. The drive to recreate the past even when it no longer serves us. Or maybe never did.
I felt this deeply when I gave up teaching dance fitness classes, something I’d done for 25 years. There were countless reasons to stop, arthritis, long drives, young kids, poor health, but long after I made the decision I couldn’t let go of the identity. I was still the dance instructor in my mind even though my body and my life had completely moved on.
For a while I’d post old videos of myself dancing like a grandparent reliving the glory days. Look at me, twirling like a star! For the record I can still twirl. I just pay for it the next day. And the next month.
The problem was I wasn’t tending to the me who existed in the now.
We crave growth, curiosity, imagination. And we also cling to comfort and familiarity, wrapping ourselves in nostalgia like a warm slightly suffocating blanket. Refusing to change might feel safe. But it’s not.
It’s stagnant.
Stagnation is like carrying a weighted blanket everywhere you go while looking around saying why am I so miserable. My son used to insist on bringing his weighted blanket to sleepovers. How is that even practical?
Untangling The Ego
Letting go of dance wasn’t just about stopping a physical activity. It was about untangling my ego from an identity it had clung to for decades.
As a dance instructor my ego was fed daily. People watched me. Listened to me. I was seen. I would have made an excellent cult leader.
For a performer it was a dream setup, especially during the years when I was buried under piles of toddler snacks and laundry, desperate to hold onto a piece of my creative self. But eventually my body started telling me the truth. Dance became more strain than joy. Physically it hurt. Emotionally it felt like chasing a younger version of myself who no longer existed.
So I started letting go. Slowly. One class here, another there. Eventually I stopped altogether. Even then I held onto the idea of dance, unwilling to fully say goodbye.
Who am I without this?
Distracting myself seemed easier than answering.
I dabbled in yoga. Two years of downward dogs and sun salutations. I was flexible, strong, and very into my yoga pants. But yoga didn’t feel like home either. If I’m being honest I think it’s because I was still showing off. Can you blame me? I’m a performer.
Now I Walk
Walking isn’t glamorous. There are no sequins, no mirrors, no bass-dropping playlists. It’s not performative or exciting.
But it feels sacred. It feels like me.
Letting go isn’t a single grand gesture. It’s a series of small steps, slow adjustments, and moments of grace. It requires patience and a willingness to sit with the anxiety of the new. It requires trust that what you’re moving toward, no matter how unglamorous or quiet it might seem, holds something vital for you.
Almost like magic, the body responds. It says: this feels good.
The mind and body like slow, sustained, disciplined focus. Words that require real attention and can’t be faked.
Trust me. I’ve tried.
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