There’s something almost comical and profoundly surreal about feeling like you’re living in two different realities at once.
In my professional world, I’m revered. My clients describe our sessions as transformational some even call them “magic.” They trust me with their deepest wounds, their most guarded truths, and their most fragile hopes for change. One client, through tears after a breakthrough, said, “Every session feels like a rebirth.” Another told me that while I’m one of the more expensive therapists in town, the investment was “priceless.”
To them, I’m wise. Grounded. Respected. Successful.
And then… I drive home.
The moment I step through my family’s door, it’s like I’ve time-traveled except instead of feeling nostalgic, I feel like I’ve been demoted. I’m no longer the guide, the professional, the woman who helps people transform their lives. I’m the same naive little girl they remember from decades ago. The one who apparently can’t be trusted to make her own decisions.
Just last week, I shared exciting news about a new business opportunity. Their response? Not “That’s amazing!” or “We’re proud of you!” but:
“Are you sure this isn’t a scam? You know you’re not as sharp as your cousin Sarah—she’s fierce, she wouldn’t get fooled. But you? Well…”
You.
That tiny word, loaded with all the doubt and condescension I’ve spent years working to release from my system.
Honestly, I laughed inside me. A big, eye-rolling, can-you-believe-this kind of laugh. It was a moment of ridiculousness so classic I almost felt like I should applaud it. Ten out of ten for staying on brand, folks.
But here’s what really matters: That laughter was a win. A hard-earned, therapy-paid-for, self-respecting win. A reminder that I’ve done the work. That I don’t absorb those words like I used to as gospel, as truth, as proof of my unworthiness.
Because I remember the woman I used to be. The one who would have let those comments sink deep, planting roots in every crack of self-doubt. I would’ve questioned everything. Again. I would’ve backed down, played small, disappeared a little more.
Sometimes I wonder how it’s even possible how I can be the respected, sought-after professional who helps people rewrite their lives… and also be the person who’s still seen, by her own family, as not quite capable.
But I’ve realized: It’s not that I’m two different people. It’s that they are stuck seeing an outdated version of me.
The people who knew us “before” often struggle to meet us in the “after.” They’re still responding to a shadow, a memory. It’s like they’re talking to a photo of who we were, even though we’ve long stepped out of the frame.
Maybe our growth unsettles them. Maybe seeing us evolve forces them to confront where they haven’t. Or maybe—this one stings—they just feel safer when we stay small.
So here’s the question that keeps me up some nights:
Do you experience this too?
That disorienting split between how the world celebrates your success and how your family discounts your worth? Do you find yourself shrinking back into old patterns when you’re around them, even though you know better?
Do their words still sting, even if just a little?
And the hardest question of all: How do we love people who refuse to see who we’ve become?
I don’t have all the answers. But I do know this:
Their inability to see my transformation doesn’t make it any less real.
Their comfort with the old me doesn’t mean I have to become her again.
And their discomfort with my growth is not my burden to carry.
The woman my clients trust and respect that’s not a persona. That’s me. This is who I’ve become. And she’s not going anywhere.
So if you’ve outgrown the container someone else built for you? That’s not your cue to shrink. That’s your signal to expand.
You’re not split. You’re not pretending.
You’re just finally living as the person you fought so hard to become.
And if others can’t see it?
That’s especially their problem not yours.
© Faith Foo, EMDR-Inspired Transformation Coach