The Myth of "Getting Back to Normal"

One of the most common questions I hear from people navigating loss, illness, burnout, or another major life transition is, "When will I get back to normal?"

It's such a human question. When life has been turned upside down, we long for familiar ground. We want to believe that if we can just work hard enough, heal enough, or wait long enough, we can return to the person we were before everything changed.

But what if getting back to normal was never the goal? What if healing isn't about going backward at all? What if it's about becoming someone new?

Our culture often tells us that resilience means bouncing back to the way we were in the past. Yet neuroscience tells us a different story. The human brain is remarkably adaptable. Through a process known as neuroplasticity, our brains are continuously reshaped by our experiences. Every significant event—whether joyful or heartbreaking—literally changes the neural pathways that influence how we think, feel, relate to others, and make sense of the world. In other words, profound experiences don't simply happen to us. They become part of us. This is not a sign that something has gone wrong. It is simply how we are designed.

One of the researchers whose work has profoundly influenced my understanding of grief is neuroscientist and psychologist Mary-Frances O'Connor. In The Grieving Brain, she explains that grief is not simply an emotion we experience—it is also a learning process. Our brains spend years, often decades, building an internal model of the people we love. We know where they are, how they laugh, what they smell like, and how they fit into the rhythm of our daily lives. When someone dies, that internal map doesn't disappear overnight. Part of our brain still expects them to walk through the door, answer the phone, or greet us at the holidays. Intellectually, we know they are gone, but our brains must slowly—and often painfully—update their expectations about the world.

This aligns with the work of neuroscientist Lisa Feldman Barrett, who describes the brain as a prediction machine. Rather than simply reacting to what happens around us, our brains are constantly making predictions based on everything we've learned from past experience. Those predictions help us navigate our lives efficiently and keep us safe. When life changes dramatically, those predictions no longer fit reality. The brain must gradually revise its internal model.

That revision is what healing often feels like. Not forgetting. Not "moving on." But learning to live in a world that has fundamentally changed.

I know this experience personally. After losing both of my parents, I felt completely untethered. Up until that point, they had been a major part of the foundation beneath my feet. Even as an independent adult, there was a quiet comfort in knowing they were still there—holding my history, witnessing my life, and connecting me to where I had come from. When they were both gone, I felt profoundly lost. There were days when I honestly wondered if I would ever feel fully functional again. I couldn't imagine feeling genuinely happy. Looking back now, I understand that my brain was trying to make sense of a world that no longer existed. Every holiday, every family tradition, every milestone required a new map. My old internal model no longer fit the reality I was living. That wasn't weakness. It was my brain doing exactly what it was designed to do.

Unfortunately, many of us mistake this natural rewiring for failure. We tell ourselves, "I should be over this," or "I don't feel like myself," or "I just want my old life back." These thoughts create a second layer of suffering—not because we're struggling, but because we believe we shouldn't be. Healing rarely follows a straight line. There were times when I felt hopeful, only to be pulled back into the depths of grief by an unexpected memory, a familiar song, or an empty chair around the holiday table. It often felt like I would take several steps forward, only to find myself taking one giant step back. But something quieter was happening beneath the surface. Little by little, my brain was learning. Little by little, my heart was expanding. Little by little, life began to hold joy again—not instead of grief, but alongside it.

One of the most hopeful discoveries in neuroscience is that our brains remain capable of change throughout our lives. New experiences, meaningful relationships, mindfulness, movement, compassion, and purposeful reflection continue shaping our neural pathways long after childhood. We are never finished becoming. Psychologists call one aspect of this process post-traumatic growth. While trauma itself is never something we would choose, many people eventually discover that their suffering has deepened their appreciation for life, strengthened their relationships, clarified their priorities, or awakened a greater sense of purpose. Growth doesn't erase pain. But over time, your world grows larger than your pain.

Fast forward several years, and I can honestly say that I am happier than I was before my parents died. Not because losing them was a gift—it wasn't. I would give almost anything to have one more conversation with and hug from each of them. But walking through grief changed me. It softened me. It taught me to sit with uncertainty instead of trying to fix it. It made me more compassionate toward suffering—my own and others'. It made forgiveness easier, love deeper, and presence more precious. The person who emerged from that season of life isn't the same woman who entered it. And surprisingly, I wouldn't want her back.

I've seen this same transformation unfold countless times in my coaching practice. People often arrive believing they want to go back to who they used to be. Instead, they slowly discover someone they have never known before. A woman who spent decades caring for everyone else finally learns to care for herself. A physician recovering from burnout reconnects with the values that first called them into medicine. A grieving spouse discovers that loving someone so deeply has forever expanded their capacity to love others. None of them returned to who they were. All of them became more fully themselves.

Perhaps that is what healing has always been. Not returning. Becoming.

So if you find yourself wondering why you don't feel like your old self, consider another possibility. Maybe your old self isn't missing. Maybe you are in the beautiful, difficult, and profoundly human process of becoming someone your past self could never have imagined. Healing isn't measured by how closely you resemble who you once were. It's measured by your willingness to gently welcome who you are becoming.

And perhaps, one day, you'll look back—as I have—and realize that while you never found your way back to normal...

You found your way home.