The Freedom (and Fear) of Beginning Again
Imagine interviewing someone with 15+ years of experience… in an industry that’s not the one you’re hiring for.
We’ve all been there. It’s a hard sell. Usually a no.
Now imagine sitting on the other side of that table.
After going all in on The Athlete Identity Project, I had to come to terms with a new reality: while I’ll never lose the skills and experience I gained, they don’t directly translate to what I’m doing now.
I'm the one sitting on the other side of the table.
Here’s what I’ve had to wrestle with:
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It might be a long time before I make the salary I made as a consulting partner. There’s a chance I never will in this new industry.
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My previous title? Just that—previous. Maybe it holds weight for those who know consulting, but it’s kind of like saying I won state when I was 16. Meaningful to me. Not necessarily relevant here.
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Did I mention the money? I did. Why is that the part that’s so hard? I drive a 10-year-old Subaru and love a good thrift store… but I also attached a lot of validation to the number on that paycheck.
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My roles at home are shifting. When I was traveling constantly, we had a certain rhythm. Now? That’s evolving. I’m grateful for the give and take, but it’s still something I’ve had to work through.
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I’m building a new network from scratch. That means asking for connections, reaching out to strangers, and summoning a lot of courage.
It’s a little ironic: I’m dedicating this season to helping athletes navigate identity transitions, and my own career pivot has followed the same emotional arc.
As I’ve moved through each stage—anchoring to my values and reconnecting with my “why”—I’ve slowly shed layers of identity I didn’t realize I was carrying.
I didn’t feel the freedom until I fully accepted that, in many ways, I was starting over.
Being a beginner is liberating.
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I’m learning every day.
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I’m meeting people who feel like they’ve been missing from my life.
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I’m approaching problems with fresh eyes and real energy.
But it took work to get here. Real, internal work.
Was it crazy? Maybe.
Worth it? We’ll see.
Energizing? Most of the time.
I shared this in my last post, but Marc and I built a true financial plan before I leapt—and that plan has grounded me through the hard moments. Because yes, even when you’re following your heart… it’s hard to stay in it.
Waking up every day to a blank slate and building from scratch is both freeing and exhausting.
I love 95% of the days. The other 5%? The pull toward something structured, stable, and known is real.
But I have more clarity than I did a month ago.
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I can see where The Athlete Identity Project is headed.
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I’ve found brilliant mentors who challenge and support me.
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I’m studying. Learning. Growing into the space I want to serve.
And while I still can’t see the whole path, I wouldn’t have made it this far if I hadn’t faced the parts of myself still tethered to the title and identity of “consulting partner.”
I wouldn’t have done that work if I hadn’t committed to this project.
And I wouldn’t have made that commitment if I hadn’t first given myself permission to rest.
When I took step one, all I could see was… step one.
But I trusted my gut. I trusted my ability to figure things out. And I trust that if I need to pivot again someday, I’ll know how.
So many of the lanes we operate in? We built them ourselves.What would it look like to rebuild one?
You don’t need a new career or a big leap.Reinvention might just mean showing up differently—for your team, your family, or yourself.
It’s easy to think the biggest obstacles are external.
But for me, the hardest part was rewriting the story between my own two ears.
As someone who’s led transformation for others, I should’ve known the timeline:You feel momentum at 6–9 months.
But real transformation? That takes years.
Turns out… that applies to me too.
I have work to do.
P.S. That polished LinkedIn profile that makes me look like I have it all figured out? It took 30 minutes. Just a reminder—the real work happens in real life, far beneath the facade of a digital bio.
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