Pandemic Identity Theft
If you don’t feel like “you” anymore -- Read this.
Today, I wanted to try to articulate something I’ve been noticing about the pandemic experience.
Living through a pandemic is challenging in many ways, including in ways that are a bit more “existential” in nature.
For some of us, pandemic life has stripped away our external markers of identity—the things we use to make sense of who we are. For example, I think about…
… the adventurous thrill-seeker who typically travels from place to place, adventure to adventure, but now finds themselves stuck at home in the same routine.
… the teacher who was known for connecting really well with kids but now feels isolated and struggles to teach effectively online.
… the community-oriented person who prided themselves on being generous and having their doors open but now has to close themselves off.
… the athlete whose life is built around high performance but had their competition schedule completely upended (and might even find themselves having to compete while ill from COVID.)
… the person who sees themselves as an overachiever at work but is now burning out and struggling to keep up.
I’ve also been hearing from lots of people who are questioning their life choices and making big decisions as a result: people who are moving, divorcing, quitting their jobs, finding new jobs, making radical changes.
In these situations, we can’t help but to wonder “who are we?”.
In my experience, this kind of questioning can be painful. But it can also be an amazing opportunity for growth.
I experienced this myself a little over a decade ago.
I was 31 years old. I was just one year out of having won an Olympic gold medal. I’d just met the wonderful woman who would become my wife. I was the best in the world at what I did, and I was starting a new career in the consulting world. Classroom Champions was in its infancy.
What could be wrong? Everything looked great on paper.
But underneath the surface I felt a staggering amount of self-doubt.
Here’s the thing. Most people who become the best in the world—or even really exceptional at something—do it through decades of learning and experiences, and a bit of luck over time. Doctors, lawyers, business leaders, teachers, and the list goes on.
But in an athlete's world, or at least in the world I inhabited in my bobsled career, you become the best in the world at a relatively young age.
When you spend the first 10 years of your adult life literally being the best in the world, it kind of sets an unrealistic bar for the rest of your life.
(One of my best friends put it this way. The summer after we won gold, he said: “Mesler, how’s it feel to have written the first line of your obituary at age 31?”)
On the other hand, if you start a career in your early twenties that eventually crescendos in your 50s or 60s, you really only know growth. You don’t know the pain of losing your “best in the world” status because your life and work is on an upward trajectory. If you never have it, you can't miss it, and when you do get it later in life, you don't really ever have to give it up. It's just who you are and it's your legacy.
My experience was a little different.
At 31 years old I was less than a year into the working world and I felt unworthy everywhere I went.
Everyday I thought to myself:
Who am I to tell these Fortune 100 CEOs what to do?
Who am I to even tell a 10 year old what to do?
And yet my career and my philanthropic worlds both lived off of those promises.
It felt like my identity had been stolen.
My identity was a bobsledder, a world champion, and an Olympic gold medalist. And my identity was something unique that everyone wanted to learn about.
And believe me, I’m not complaining. I still feel incredibly grateful and so lucky to have gotten to do what I did. But this is also true:
The minute you retire, you are no longer the best.
Tragically, by the time I was 41 years old I could count on more than one hand the guys I know who were once one of the best in the world and were now buried six feet under by their own choice. And I believe that this is a big reason for that; it's really hard to move right from being the best in the world into a strong case of imposter syndrome.
By now you might be thinking: this is pretty heavy. What’s the good news, Steve?
So here’s what I can tell you.
The good thing about going through this process is that it trained me in how to let my identity shift and grow.
I learned that at some point, we have to move beyond those external markers we use to validate ourselves. We have to find ways to be happy and content in life and love in a better way.
Losing these external measuring sticks of our own sense of success and self-worth isn’t all bad. (I hadn’t gone more than three weeks in over ten years without being on a plane, it’s who I was. Now, I can’t imagine living that life again and have no desire to do that to myself or family again.)
Being locked inside a house for over 400 damn days in a row can also be an opportunity to start appreciating yourself for who you are, to be happy with your accomplishments, and to let go of whatever imposter syndrome you might be carrying.
(And in my next email I’ll share one way I’ve been doing that for myself.)
Maybe it’s time to let the “identity theft” work for you instead of against you. And instead of trying to hold tight to who you were, start to think about who you could be.
- Steve
