The Double-Edged Sword of New Beginnings

I recently turned the page on a significant professional chapter.

Contrary to what I had imagined, I did not feel relief or liberation as I shut down my computer at the end of that final day. The week itself had been difficult to get through—exhaustion had quietly taken over—and by the morning of my last day, I was feeling genuinely unwell. I pushed through, navigating real physical symptoms that may have been the result of accumulated fatigue and stress, perhaps compounded by a virus my depleted immune system was struggling to fend off.

For weeks, I had carried a mental image of crossing that finishing line on a celebratory note, martini in hand. Instead, the moment materialized as a strange sense of nothingness—and an evening spent in bed.

I have a theory about what has been unfolding, and I want to share it with you.

Weeks earlier, my friend and coach, Isabelle Lanthier, spoke to me about the duality of emotions that often coexist during periods of transition. I believe I am now living that truth, fully and viscerally.

The grief that follows choice

In a recent blog post about letting go, I touched on this very duality—the idea that with every decision we make, there are both gains and losses, even when the balance tilts clearly toward what is right or necessary. Choosing to honour our soul’s yearnings, saying yes to new beginnings or possibilities, also means grieving what we knew, what we loved, and what once sustained us.

I recently came across a reflection shared by Teri-Ann Richards that resonated deeply and helped me put words to what I have been feeling. She spoke about knowing when to release what no longer serves us, and about the grief—or even the sense of failure—that can surface when we close a door that has been open for a very long time.

I thought I had already grieved the closing of a chapter that shaped more than five years of my life. I am now realizing that there is still much grieving to do.

I am saying goodbye to a remarkable team of human beings—people I worked alongside closely and cared for deeply. That absence alone requires adjustment. I am letting go of a cause into which I poured my heart and soul, often at great personal cost. I am also releasing a long-held survival mode, along with the thoughts and patterns that once served their purpose but are no longer needed.

Perhaps most unexpectedly, I am grieving the saviour persona—far more than I anticipated. I still find myself in quiet inner dialogues with that part of me. There are unresolved threads there, conversations that may yet need to happen.

In short, the grieving process is far from over. It will be important to create space for these thoughts and emotions, to welcome them rather than rush past them, as I begin to imagine what the next chapter of my life may hold.

Returning to the voice that was always there

As a young girl, I wanted to be a writer.

I dreamed of spending half the year writing—secluded on a tropical island—and the other half travelling the world to promote my books. That dream went dormant for more than a decade after a former partner read my work and deemed it too dark. I stopped writing altogether.

I found my way back in 2015, while participating in the Governor General’s Canadian Leadership Conference. As our study group travelled through Nunavut, I volunteered to serve as its blogger. That experience reawakened something essential in me. After the conference, I made a promise to my friend Denis Carignan that I would keep writing. Starting this blog became a way of formalizing that commitment—to him, and to myself.

I share this because life often takes us on unexpected detours, only to circle us back to the desires and callings of our youth. I believe we are deeply connected to our true selves when we are young—though we rarely recognize it at the time. As we grow older, we often let go of that pure, instinctive connection to our purpose and our imprint on this world.

Today, I feel both excitement and joy at the idea of having more space and time to write. And yet, that possibility also frightens me. The subjects I am drawn to are raw and exposing. I know I have deliberately numbed my voice in recent years; the quieter rhythm of this blog bears witness to that. Facing this self-protective instinct now feels both necessary and terrifying.

Who are we, beyond what we do?

As the end of this chapter approached, I also found myself navigating familiar companions: self-doubt and fear—tied both to the past and to the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

For years, I moved from one professional challenge to the next, with financial stability as a constant priority. The range of paths now available to me feels deeply alluring, yet profoundly unsettling to the part of me that has been hard-wired for survival, contingency plans, and constant motion.

There is reassurance in being able to explain what comes next in practical terms. And yet, I find myself troubled by how easily my worth becomes intertwined with what I do. I have spent much of my adult life being valued for my output, my roles, my titles. At times, it has felt as though my usefulness eclipsed my humanity.

This realization has led me to understand that some gentle—but necessary—cleansing must happen within my network. That, too, brings mixed emotions: relief alongside guilt. More importantly, it calls me back to a deeper task—reclaiming my value as a person, not just as a professional.

Holding both

Yes, transitioning into a new chapter is a double-edged sword.

We speak often about what comes next, about possibility and renewal. We speak far less about the quiet grief that accompanies endings, even chosen ones. I do not yet have all the answers. The “what’s next” remains, in many ways, undefined.

What I do know is this: I am learning to listen more closely to my inner voice. And if there is one lesson I am choosing to hold onto—echoed through Teri-Ann’s experience—it is that closing certain doors can open others that were previously unimaginable.

For now, I will allow myself to grieve. And I will remain open to the possibilities that new beginnings, in all their complexity, quietly carry.

A door stands open, asking not for certainty, but for presence.