Nobody really prepares you for the ache of personal growth. They tell you to evolve, to become your best self, to “level up”, and to “leave behind what no longer serves you.” But what they don’t mention is that sometimes, the things you’re outgrowing aren’t toxic or terrible—they’re familiar, comfortable, and maybe even beautiful. The only thing is that you’re just not that version of yourself anymore. And that realisation? It can feel like grief.
There’s something quietly disorienting about no longer fitting into a life you once prayed for. You could be sitting in your own living room, surrounded by things you picked out with such certainty three years ago, and suddenly feel like a stranger in your own space. The music you used to vibe to now irritates you. The friends you once called every day start to feel like polite check-ins. The dreams that once lit you up now feel like tight shoes you’re forcing your feet into.
It’s easy to glamorise growth, especially on this side of the internet. We love a good “glow up” story. New career, new body, new mindset. But here’s what no one says: outgrowing yourself often means breaking your own heart. It means looking at the mirror and no longer recognising the girl who used to love Friday nights at W Bar, or the guy who found validation in Twitter likes. It’s deleting entire playlists. It’s dodging old haunts because you know you’ll feel out of place—like a guest at a party you used to host.
For Nigerians especially, where community and identity are often deeply tied to family expectations, childhood friendships, and culture, growing out of who you were can feel like rebellion. When you say no to Sunday rice at your auntie’s place because you need rest, people call you proud. When you step back from the group chat where nobody really checks in on you, but everyone expects you to show up, they say you’ve changed. And you have. But that’s the point.
The thing is, you can love who you were and still outgrow her. You can be grateful for the role certain people, habits, or even cities played in your life and still know, deep in your chest, that it’s time to move on. That version of you was necessary. She got you here. But she can’t take you further.
One of the hardest parts is that no one tells you how lonely growth can be. You’re suddenly in this in-between place: not quite who you used to be, but not yet who you’re becoming. Your old life no longer fits, but your new one isn’t fully built yet. So you float. You question. You fumble. And sometimes, you want to go back. Not because it was better, but because it was easier to understand.
This limbo stage is when most people hit the panic button. They run back to the ex they had finally blocked, rejoin the WhatsApp group they had exited, or force themselves into friendships that drain them—just to avoid the silence that comes with evolution. However, the truth is silence is not a void. It’s a canvas. And the loneliness? It’s space. Space to create, to rebuild, to reimagine who you are.
In a society like ours, where everyone seems to have an opinion on how you should live, from your career path to when you should marry, it takes courage to choose yourself. To say, “This may not make sense to anyone else, but I’m listening to myself now.” To turn down opportunities that look good on paper but don’t feel right in your spirit. To rest, even when there’s pressure to keep grinding.
No one tells you how healing it is to meet a new version of yourself and actually like her. To look back and realise that what you feared would break you actually became your breakthrough. That the days you spent crying over what you lost were quietly planting the seeds of who you were becoming.
Growth is not always loud. Sometimes it’s in the quiet choice to let a friendship end without bitterness. Sometimes it’s in forgiving yourself for what you tolerated. Sometimes it’s in waking up and realising that you no longer need external validation to feel enough. You just are.
So if you’re in that uncomfortable space right now—where the old you is gone but the new you isn’t fully here yet—breathe. You’re not lost. You’re expanding. The discomfort is just your soul stretching into something bigger. And one day, not long from now, you’ll wake up and realise you feel at home in your own skin again.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll thank the version of you who was brave enough to outgrow what no longer fit—even when it hurt.
Because she didn’t just leave.
She made room.
