Identity Loss: What to Do When You’ve Lost the Life You Knew

Identity loss hits hard—when everything you were is ripped away, what’s left?

2023 came in swinging. A wrecking ball to everything I thought I was, everything I had built, everything I believed was solid. And today, as I let go of the last remaining piece of that life, I realize something brutal—I am suffering from identity loss, and I don’t know how I feel about it.

And that? That’s hard to admit.

I’m struggling.

Not just in the way we all struggle sometimes—bad day, tough week, push through, move on. No, this is different. This is deeper. This is identity loss, and it doesn’t just shake you—it shatters you.

At the start of 2023, I was on top. Full-time Field Officer. Part-time Reserve Officer. Law enforcement wasn’t just my job—it was my identity. The badge, the uniform, and the brotherhood were who I was. It was how I measured my worth. Every day, I walked into a world that respected the work I did, and I couldn’t see myself ever doing anything else.

Then came February. Then came the hit I never saw coming. A personal catastrophe that blindsided me knocked the wind out of me and left me staggering. I did what I’ve always done: I tried to push through and outwork the pain. But when your mind isn’t right, everything else starts slipping.

The cracks formed. My performance suffered. My admin noticed. They tried to help. But even the best support can’t fix what’s broken inside when you refuse to face it. The mistakes piled up. Not massive ones—no laws broken, no one hurt—but enough to make me an easy target.

And in June, the trigger got pulled. I was terminated.

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: losing that job felt like dying. You can’t spend years living a life, breathing it, bleeding for it, and then just walk away like it was nothing. I lost more than a paycheck. I lost my sense of purpose. I lost who I was. And when that’s ripped away, what’s left?

Nothing but a void.

I wasn’t ready to face that. So, I held on to what I could—my part-time role at the smaller department. A lifeline. A scrap of what I used to be. But let’s be real: it wasn’t the same. There’s a difference between living a job and clinging to the leftovers.

Still, I wasn’t about to let go. I forced it to work, even when I knew it was impossible. Even when my full-time corrections job made it harder and harder to balance, I still refused to let go.

Until today.

Today, I turn in my badge. My gear. My last grip on the world I used to belong to. And the truth? I don’t know what comes next.

I’ve spent my life pushing through. Survive the hit, get back up, and keep going. But this? This isn’t a setback. This isn’t a fight I can win. This is the death of an identity. This is identity loss.

And I don’t know how to process that.

People love to talk about resilience like it’s a switch you flip. “Stay strong. Push forward. Keep moving.” But what if you don’t know where forward even is anymore? What if the map you’ve always followed just burned to ashes in your hands?

Law enforcement wasn’t just a career. It was my identity. It shaped how I saw the world, carried myself, and interacted with people. It dictated my routines, my mentality, and my purpose. And now? Now that’s gone, and I have to figure out who I am without it.

And let me tell you—identity loss doesn’t come with a manual.

There’s a part of me that wants to slap an inspirational ending on this. “I’ll be fine. I’ll figure it out. This is just another challenge to overcome.” And maybe all of that is true. Maybe I will find my way because I always do.

But not today.

Today, I’m sitting in the wreckage of identity loss. Today, I’m allowing myself to feel this. Because pretending it doesn’t hurt doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I’ve learned the hard way that ignoring pain doesn’t make it disappear—it just buries it deeper. And buried pain? It has a way of coming back with a vengeance. So I’m not going to run from this. I’m going to face it. Feel it. Own it.

I don’t have the answers. Not for myself or anyone else going through identity loss. But I do know this—identity loss is a process. It’s a brutal, gut-wrenching, tear-you-down-and-make-you-rebuild process. And I can’t rush it.

So I won’t.

Instead, I’ll take this one breath at a time. One step at a time. One day at a time. Because even when you don’t know who you are anymore, you still have a choice. And right now, my choice is simple: Keep moving even when I don’t know where the road leads.

Stay disciplined. Stay resilient. Live with PRIDE.

Jim Lunsford

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