There’s something profoundly surreal about living two completely different versions of yourself, isn’t there? The one the world sees, neatly put together, and the one you carry in quiet moments — raw, unfiltered, and known only to you.
WORDS FAITH FOO
 FEATURED EXPERTFAITH FOO Director of ABRI Integrated Mental Health Director of The Bridge International Hub (Korean Counseling Centre) Registered & Licensed Counsellor Certified EMDR Therapist Certified Coaching & Mentoring Professional HRD Corp-Certified Trainer Published Author Website | Facebook | YouTube |
In my professional world, I am revered.
My clients speak of our sessions as transformative experiences. Some even call them “magical”.
They trust me with their deepest wounds, their most guarded secrets, their fragile hopes for change.
“Every session feels like a rebirth,” one client told me recently, tears streaming down her face after a breakthrough moment. Another insisted that working with me had been a “priceless investment”.
They see me as someone who holds the power to reshape lives, to guide souls from darkness into light.
In their eyes, I am wise. Experienced. Respected. Successful.
BUT THEN I DRIVE HOME
The moment I walk through my family’s door, I transform through their eyes—or rather, I shrink back into someone I thought I’d left behind years ago.
Suddenly, I’m not the healer, the guide, the professional who commands respect.
I’m still that naive, scared little girl they remember from decades past. The one who apparently can’t be trusted to make her own decisions.
Just last week, I excitedly shared news about a promising business opportunity. Do you know what their first response was? Not congratulations. Not excitement for my venture.
Instead: “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.
Such a small word that carries the weight of a thousand doubts they’ve planted in my heart over the years.
I actually laughed when they said it. A genuine, belly-deep laugh that surprised even me. I caught myself rolling my eyes like a teenager who’d just been told that her dreams were “unrealistic”.
But here’s the thing — that laughter? That eye-roll? They were victories. Hard-won trophies from years of therapy, self-reflection, and painstaking work to rebuild my sense of self.
Because I can still remember the woman I used to be.
The one who would have absorbed those words like poison, letting them seep into every corner of my being until I believed them completely.
Those comments would have crushed my spirit, left me questioning not just this opportunity, but every decision I’d ever made or ever would make. They would have confirmed every cruel whisper of self-doubt: You’re not good enough. You’re worthless. You’ll never amount to anything.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m living with a split personality. How can the same person be both the respected professional who transforms lives and the “naive little girl” who can’t be trusted with a business decision?
Which version is real? Am I successful, or am I foolish? Am I wise, or am I naive?
The truth is, both versions exist — but only one reflects who I’ve actually become.
A DANCE BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
Here’s what I’ve learned through this strange dance between two worlds: The people who knew us “before” often struggle to see us “after”.
They’re still responding to the ghost of who we used to be, not the person standing in front of them. It’s as if they’re looking at us through an old photograph, unable to see that we’ve stepped out of the frame entirely.
Maybe it’s too threatening for them to acknowledge our growth.
Maybe seeing us transform forces them to confront their own stagnation.
Or maybe — and this one stings — maybe they need us to stay small to feel big themselves.
But here’s the question that keeps me awake some nights: Do you experience this too? This jarring disconnect between how the world sees your success and how your family sees your worth?
Have you ever felt like you’re living a double life—celebrated by strangers, diminished by the people who are supposed to love you most?
Do their comments still find their mark, even after all your growth? Do you sometimes catch yourself shrinking back into that old version of yourself when you’re around them, even though you know better?
Does part of you still desperately crave their approval, their recognition, their acknowledgment that yes, you have indeed transformed?
And perhaps the hardest question of all: How do we love people who can’t see who we’ve become? How do we maintain relationships with those who insist on keeping us locked in the past?
I don’t have all the answers yet.
But I do know this: Their inability to see my transformation doesn’t negate it.
Their comfort with the old me doesn’t obligate me to shrink back into her. And their fear of my growth doesn’t make me responsible for managing their discomfort.
The woman my clients see isn’t a performance or a professional mask — she’s who I actually am now.
The work I’ve done, the healing I’ve experienced, the wisdom I’ve gained — it’s all real. It all counts. Even if the people who knew me “before” refuse to see it.
So, to anyone else living in this strange space between two versions of themselves: You are not split.
You are not confused.
You have simply outgrown the container others built for you, and that’s not your problem to fix.
The person you’ve become is valid, worthy, and real — even if the people who loved the old you can’t bring themselves to meet the new you.
Especially then.
| This article is part of our series on mental wellness. |
