The Quiet After the Storm: Confronting the Void

For most of my life, I’ve been caught in the storm. Turbulence was my norm, and while there were occasional breaks in the chaos—moments of calm where the skies cleared—I knew those moments wouldn’t last. I lived with the constant fear of the other shoe dropping, always bracing myself for what was to come. It’s a feeling Brene Brown has called “delayed joy”—the inability to fully trust peace when it appears, because the shadow of past experiences looms too large.

The idea of the storm ending completely feels almost unimaginable. If the stillness came and stayed, I’m not sure I’d know how to trust it, let alone embrace it. The magnitude of the experiences I’ve lived through has left a mark—a lingering sense that the calm is never permanent and that even in the quiet, chaos waits around the corner.

Facing the Void

There have been times when the busyness of life stopped, and the void presented itself. Those moments were deeply disorienting. After years of living in crisis mode, managing chaos, and fixing problems, the stillness was almost unbearable. It wasn’t a welcome reprieve; it was a confrontation. In the quiet, I found myself surrendering completely to the weight of it all—and for a time, I couldn’t get back up again.

This wasn’t a space for memories or emotions to resurface. It was a space for introspection, a stark mirror reflecting the life I’d led. It allowed me to see everything objectively—the roles I’d played, the sacrifices I’d made, and the truths I’d hidden from myself. It became clear that I had no identity outside of the roles I filled and the jobs I performed. This realization wasn’t liberating; it was devastating. The void consumed me, and I sank into it, burned out and unable to find the will to rise again.

In my daily life, this disorientation manifested in unexpected ways. Routine tasks became daunting and meaningless, as if the purpose behind them had evaporated. I found myself oscillating between procrastination and hyper-focus—avoiding the quiet moments I desperately needed while clinging to activities that offered fleeting distractions. Even relationships and hobbies that once brought joy now felt disconnected, as if the void had swallowed my connection to them whole.

Dr. Judith Herman, a renowned trauma psychologist, describes this as a collapse of the “survivor self.” When one’s identity is built entirely on enduring and solving crises, the absence of crisis can feel like a loss of purpose. The quiet reveals the cracks beneath the surface—the unaddressed wounds and buried truths—and confronting those truths is often the most disorienting part of healing.

The Existential Crisis of Losing Identity

In the quiet, I’ve confronted a truth I had long avoided: I don’t have an identity beyond being competent, resilient, and adaptable. These qualities define me, yet they feel hollow—like placeholders for something deeper that I haven’t yet discovered.

This realization of the void triggered an existential crisis. I began to see my life for what it truly was, stripped of the narratives I had clung to for comfort. Dr. Gabor Maté, an expert in trauma and addiction, often speaks about how our survival adaptations can create identities that are disconnected from our authentic selves. In my case, my identity had been shaped by caregiving and crisis management—roles that were imposed on me rather than chosen. The quiet forced me to reckon with the reality that who I thought I was had been shaped entirely by necessity.

Maslow’s hierarchy of needs provides an important framework here. For years, I operated in survival mode, focused on meeting the basic needs of others at the expense of my own. The stillness offered a rare opportunity to begin moving beyond survival—to consider the possibility of self-actualization. But progress was anything but linear, as I grappled with the realization that I had yet to uncover my true desires or define my unique essence.

Clawing My Way Back Out

Navigating the quiet hasn’t been easy. To cope, I’ve immersed myself in deep inner work—introspection, shadow work, and dismantling the very foundation of my existence as I knew it. Dr. Brené Brown describes this process as “reckoning”—the act of confronting our stories and rewriting them with honesty and courage. For me, this reckoning has involved blowing up my identity, breaking it apart piece by piece to understand who I am at my core.

I’ve essentially destroyed the version of myself that existed before, and while this process has been necessary, it has been anything but linear. Some days, I feel like I’m clawing my way back out of the void, fighting for progress that feels painfully slow. But Dr. Carl Jung’s philosophy of “shadow work” reminds me that healing isn’t about rushing to the finish line—it’s about integrating the parts of ourselves we’ve hidden or rejected.

Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy has offered additional insights. It teaches that we have “parts” within us—caretaker, protector, inner child—that need integration to heal. Through this lens, I’ve begun to see how my caregiving role became dominant, overshadowing other parts of myself. Reclaiming those parts has been a journey of balancing rather than erasing.

Reaching out to others has been a mixed experience. Some people, like classmates from my master’s program, former professors, and long-time friends, understood the journey I was on. Others didn’t. For the most part, this has been a solo endeavor—a lonely confrontation with myself that no one else could fully grasp.

Profound Discoveries

Despite the pain of this journey, it has brought with it profound insights. I’ve learned that my upbringing, combined with factors like my astrology, enneagram, and personal myths, has shaped who I am and what I’m meant to do. I’ve come to appreciate myself in a way I never did before—to see the why behind the person I’ve become and to honor the resilience that has carried me through.

Psychologist Viktor Frankl, in his work Man’s Search for Meaning, speaks about how even in suffering, we find purpose. This resonates deeply with me, as the stillness has allowed me to reflect on the trials I’ve endured and see them as part of a larger journey—a journey toward understanding, growth, and meaning. The void didn’t erase the pain of these trials, but it reframed them as stepping stones to something greater.

A Message for Others

The quiet after the storm is something many people fear, yet it’s a necessary part of the healing process. We all want to know that the chaos will pass, that there’s light at the end of the tunnel. But the truth is, the stillness isn’t easy. It’s a space where you confront yourself—not the person others expect you to be, but the person you truly are.

If you’re facing your own quiet, I encourage you to sit in it. Don’t run from the discomfort; listen to what the silence isn’t saying. It’s there that you’ll find the answers you’ve been searching for.

Rebuilding your identity after confronting the void requires releasing everything that no longer serves you. It takes a level of honesty with yourself that is both frightening and transformative. You need to look into the abyss of your soul and accept yourself as you are—flaws and all. As Frankl reminds us, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”

Start small. Begin by journaling your thoughts and feelings. Write about the roles you’ve played and whether they truly align with who you are. Consider creating a self-discovery journal where you write three things you value or enjoy each day, helping you reconnect with your authentic self. Guided meditations can also offer moments of clarity during quiet periods. And most importantly, give yourself grace—this process takes time.

Moving Forward

I’m still in the process of rebuilding. Right now, I’m taking everything I’ve learned and using it to help others on their own healing journeys—to guide them toward divine love, consciousness, and self-love. I’m moving forward one step at a time, following what aligns with my soul rather than the opinions of others.

This quiet period has been both a necessity and a challenge. Even though I often feel like a failure for stepping back, I know this stillness is part of my journey. It’s teaching me to honor myself, to find purpose in the void, and to emerge stronger on the other side.