I Can't Return to My Old Self. The Building Was Rebuilt
I dreamed I couldn't find my apartment. The building had been completely rebuilt. When I woke up, I realized: I can't go back to my old relationship with myself. And I don't want to.
When Urgency Leaves, What Remains?
For most of my life, urgency was the engine.
Deadlines. Children. Husbands. Bosses. Newspaper ads running to press.
They called me Deadline Rosie.
Urgency made me sharp. Fast. Decisive. Productive.
Adrenaline can make you feel powerful. It compresses time. It overrides fatigue. It creates visible proof that you are doing something.
And for decades, that worked.
But urgency is an external tool. It’s propulsion. It’s pressure. It’s reaction.
Now I don’t live with deadlines. No one is waiting on me. No child needs a project finished. No editor needs copy before midnight. No press is rolling.
The engine changed.
And I didn’t realize how much I relied on urgency to know I was progressing.
Because without urgency, something strange happens.
It gets quiet.
No shouting. No chaos. No internal hum of something about to go wrong.
Just space.
And space takes adjustment.
The Collapse After Completion
Recently, I finished a painting.
When I’m coming down the home stretch on a canvas, my energy tightens. Every detail must land exactly right. My body is engaged. Focused. Holding the whole thing together.
Then it’s done.
And the collapse comes.
Not dramatic. Not emotional. Just a drop.
The old me would have fought it. Pushed through. Proved momentum. Answered every comment. Written the next piece. Checked the box.
The new me pulled away.
I shut down the office. Laid on the daybed. Did nothing productive for hours.
And yesterday, the collapse came differently.
Not gentle. Not manageable.
My body shut me down completely.
I passed out for two hours. I didn’t drift. I didn’t scroll. I didn’t negotiate with myself.
My body just took over.
And when I woke up, I had been somewhere
.
The Dream
In the dream, I had gone away for six weeks.
When I returned, I was in a building that held both my small apartment and the apartment of a man I had once loved. In the dream, his face was the face of a former boyfriend who has since died.
I watched him say goodbye to someone else.
There was no scene. No accusation. No heartbreak.
At one point he said, quietly, “Let’s take a break.”
And I didn’t hesitate.
“I’m out of here,” I said.
And I walked away.
No pleading. No fixing. No trying to make it work.
I assumed I would go back to my own apartment.
But I couldn’t find it.
The building had been completely rebuilt.
The old corridors were gone. Marble floors replaced what used to be plain tile. Where there had been quiet hallways, there were now shopping spaces. Fast-moving walkways instead of escalators. Everything moved differently.
I asked someone at an information desk how to get to my apartment on the second floor.
Another woman standing nearby said, “I went away and my home is complete. I don’t know where anything is.”
And that’s when I woke up.
What Struck Me
What struck me wasn’t the man.
It was the relief.
I woke up exhilarated. Relieved. Free.
The invisible chains I had felt the last few days—the subtle pressure to make things happen, to hold everything together, to prove momentum—were gone.
Just gone.
It didn’t feel like loss.
It felt like completion.
The version of me who lived on urgency had finished. Who relied on pressure. Who used adrenaline as fuel. Who held it all together because that’s what she had always done.
Not rejected. Not shamed. Not destroyed.
Completed.
In the dream, I could not return to my apartment because the building had been rebuilt.
In waking life, I cannot return to that old internal structure because it no longer exists in the same way.
The pathways have changed. The layout has shifted. The nervous system has integrated something deeper.
And when I woke up, something subtle had shifted.
Renewal.
Not fireworks. Not creative explosion. Just a quiet sense that the mountain I saw yesterday now looked manageable.
Nothing external changed.
My nervous system did.
That is progress.
The Illusion of Linear Growth
We are taught that progress looks like this:
Upward. Consistent. Productive. Relentless.
But real expansion looks more like this:
Output. Completion. Collapse. Integration. Renewal.
You cannot skip the collapse.
If you do, you burn out. Or sabotage. Or turn against yourself for not being “enough.”
Collapse is not failure.
It’s recalibration.
When Urgency Disappears
When urgency leaves your life, identity wobbles.
For years, urgency kept us moving forward. It told us we were needed. It gave us direction.
In retirement, that external pressure disappears.
And many women say:
“I feel flat.”
“I feel unmotivated.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Nothing is wrong.
The old fuel is gone.
And the new fuel is quieter.
The soul is not urgent. The soul is persistent.
Urgency shouts. The soul knocks.
Urgency demands. The soul invites.
Urgency spikes. The soul steadies.
When nothing else is pulling at your attention, something else begins to speak:
“You have time now. Are you listening?”
Expansion Without Road Signs
Here is the part I am adjusting to.
I know I have expanded.
My connection with my soul is stronger. The quality of that connection is deeper. My sense of self is broader.
But there are no road signs for this kind of growth.
No deadlines. No chaos. No friction to measure myself against.
It’s calm.
And calm requires adjustment when you’ve lived on adrenaline.
There’s no scoreboard for coherence. No applause for regulation. No metric for congruence.
Just a felt sense.
I notice my tone has changed. My reactions are slower. My need to compete is softer. My responses are more intentional.
It doesn’t feel dramatic.
It feels dimensional.
I’m not climbing.
I’m deepening.
The Body as Author
One more thing has become clear as I’ve gotten older.
My body has a louder voice in my decisions.
When I was younger, I overrode the body to meet obligation.
Now I include it.
If my body says, “I need to integrate,” I listen.
If it says, “Not today,” I pause.
If it says, “Now,” I move.
This is not laziness.
This is coherence.
A Different Kind of Progress
I don’t miss the old intensity.
I don’t feel relieved it’s gone.
I’m adjusting.
Because this is new territory.
Progress used to mean: More output. More speed. More proof.
Now progress means: More congruence. More steadiness. More alignment between my nervous system, my words, and my actions.
For years, urgency was my compass.
When urgency left, I thought I might feel flat.
Instead, I feel light.
I couldn’t go back to the old relationship with myself if I wanted to.
And the surprising part is this:
I don’t want to.
The Fourth Declutter
This is the fourth part of the soul declutter series.
Not the closet. Not the calendar.
The belief that progress must feel urgent.
When that belief falls away, what’s left is something quieter.
And much more powerful.
When urgency leaves, what remains is authorship.
No one is demanding my attention anymore.
So the question becomes:
When nothing external is urgent…
What is persistent?
What keeps knocking?
And do I open the door?
This is not a triumphant story.
It is not an announcement.
It is a recognition.
Something structural shifted.
The building was rebuilt.
And I am learning the new floor plan.
Another brilliant piece. This reminds me of the piece you wrote about the change in “operating system.“ this shift away from urgency and adrenaline has taken a few years for me. At first, I really missed the old me but knew I could never get it back again. And now I am at home with the shift. One thing I’m really noticing is that with my expanded bandwidth I am feeling things more deeply. And I’m grateful for that.
Thanks so much. I have shifted as well, claimed sovereignty and now find myself in new hallways all the time but with spaciousness and choice and freedom. What a beautiful shift.