Navigating Self-Perception Shifts: Reflections and Growth

“Who are you if your story begins to change? Do not be so loyal to your suffering that your healing doesn't stand a chance.” Vienna Pharaon

If you’re new here I’m Laura, a counsellor, nature therapist, somatic therapist, meditation teacher and space holder. My work is centered around gently guiding people back into relationship with themselves, with their bodies, and with the wider natural world. My offerings weave together counselling psychology, embodiment, nature connection and ritual to support deeper alignment with our inner and outer cycles.

Today, I want to share some reflections on the evolving nature of self-perception; the quiet, often seismic shifts in how we come to understand ourselves. These changes often happen in the therapy room but not always. Sometimes they arrive during unexpected conversations. One minute, you’re moving through life with a particular idea of who you are, an idea shaped by experience, repetition, identity, and pain, and then something small but powerful interrupts that narrative. A sentence. A look. A question. Something lands, and suddenly you see yourself differently.

In this case, my friend looked me in the eye and said, with gentle certainty:

"You are not aware of your own power."

Our self-concept, the internal understanding we hold about of who we are, is not static.

Up until that point, I had thought of myself as someone who had done a lot of inner work, and I had. I’d spent years unpacking trauma, building self-awareness, strengthening boundaries. But underneath all of that effort was still a lingering belief that I was powerless in certain areas of my life. I had been carrying old wounds like anchors, dragging them with me even as I told myself I’d moved on. What I realised in that moment is this: our self-concept, the internal understanding we hold about of who we are, is not static. I knew this from a theoretical perspective but I’d never seen it so clearly about myself.

Psychologically, self-concept is shaped by a complex interaction of memory, identity, cognition, emotion, and social feedback. It evolves, yet many of us operate from an outdated blueprint. We tell ourselves stories about our lives that may no longer be true, simply because they’re familiar. We become attached to the narrative self, a concept in psychology that suggests we construct our identities like stories, with beginnings, climaxes, villains, and wounds. My own narrative had been one of survival. Of strength through suffering. And while that was true at one point, I began to see how I was using that story as both shield and sword. I was protecting myself from vulnerability and also keeping others at a distance. In psychological terms, I was projecting a defended self, a constructed persona designed to mitigate risk and keep me safe. But the cost was authenticity and connection.

When we lead with our old pain, we ask people to meet that version of us first. We’re essentially saying, “This is who I am, see my scars, see my strength, but don’t get too close.” In doing this we anchor ourselves to the past and rob ourselves of the freedom to be who we’ve become. We filter new experiences through outdated beliefs and respond to present-day interactions with strategies that belonged to a different version of us. Even as I’d been healing, growing, learning, I hadn’t updated my inner understanding of myself. I still viewed myself through the lens of the wounded past, even though my present self had evolved. Cognitive psychologists might describe this as a kind of cognitive distortion, where beliefs remain rigid despite changing evidence. I wasn’t giving myself permission to be someone new.

Cognitive psychologists might describe this as a kind of cognitive distortion, where beliefs remain rigid despite changing evidence.

I’m not judging myself for that. We hold onto our stories because they make us feel safe. They offer coherence. Familiarity. They help us make sense of pain. And for many of us, trauma shapes identity in profound ways. But there comes a point where the old story begins to limit rather than protect us. And if we want to grow, we have to ask ourselves: Is this story still serving me? We all present versions of ourselves to the world, sometimes the vigilant self, sometimes the strong self, sometimes the self that’s been hurt but is trying anyway. But what if we made more space for the soft self, the uncertain self, the self that’s becoming? That self doesn’t cling to the past or try to control the future. It simply lives, here, in the present.

When we meet new people while leading with our old stories, we prime them to see us through that lens. Our self-concept becomes a social script. But what would happen if we let people meet us as we are today? What if we allowed ourselves to be reintroduced, not only to others but to ourselves?

Today, I feel softened. There’s less armour. There’s more curiosity. I feel lighter because I’m no longer dragging the narrative of my past into every present interaction. I’m not projecting old pain into new relationships (well, not as much—I’m still human, after all). I’m allowing myself to be known for who I am now, not for who I had to be in order to survive.

Reflections on your self concept. Who are you when your story begins to change?

I invite you to reflect:

Who are you when your story begins to change?
Are there stories you’re telling yourself that no longer reflect who you are in this moment?
And what would it feel like to let them go?

Here are a few ways to begin exploring that shift:

• Notice what your old story gives you. Does it offer safety? Validation? A sense of identity? Sometimes holding on to the past serves a purpose. Recognise it without judgment.

• Take inventory. Where are you now? Write down the ways your life and inner world have changed. What evidence is there that the old narrative no longer applies?

• Ritualise the release. Write out the old story in full. Then burn it, tear it up, bury it, whatever feels right. Let it go, physically and symbolically.

• Reframe the narrative. Instead of viewing your past through a lens of pain, look for resilience, learning, transformation. How did it shape your strengths?

• Seek support. Sometimes we need a witness. A therapist can help guide you through the layers of identity and emotion, and help you uncover the self beneath the story.

Above all, remember this:

Your story is not your identity. You authored it, and you can edit it. You are under no obligation to remain loyal to the version of yourself that existed in your suffering.

“Do not be so loyal to your suffering that your healing doesn't stand a chance.”

You are not the person you used to be. None of us are. And that’s not only okay—it’s beautiful.