There’s a kind of grief that’s hard to explain.

It doesn’t come from something going wrong.
It doesn’t come from a clear loss.

It shows up quietly—often in the middle of a life you’re actually happy with.

That’s what I’ve been reflecting on this week.

It’s been 10 years since I opened my boutique salon in the UK, and it’s brought back so many memories. It feels like a lifetime ago, probably because moving abroad created such a clear divide between “then” and “now.”

I loved that chapter of my life.
I loved who I was in it.

But I don’t want to go back.

And yet… I still feel a sense of loss.

When we moved abroad, not being able to continue hairdressing was one of the hardest parts for me. I had been a hairdresser straight out of school. It wasn’t just my job—it was part of my identity.

Letting that go wasn’t just a practical change.
It was the loss of a version of myself.

Since then, I’ve noticed this feeling appear in other areas of my life.

With my daughter, as she’s grown into a teenager. I deeply love the person she is becoming, but I still find myself missing her younger years.

With moving across the US—from the East Coast to the West Coast—feeling genuinely happy in our new life, while also holding a quiet, almost unexplainable sadness.

And with my own body and stage of life. Moving through peri-menopause and menopause brings its own shifts—not just physically, but emotionally. There are versions of myself that felt stronger, more certain, more defined.

And now… there’s more unknown.

But perhaps that’s always been true.

We think we know what the future looks like.
But we never really do.

What I’m beginning to understand is that much of what we label as confusion, discomfort, or even unhappiness… is actually grief.

Grief for versions of ourselves, our lives, and even other people that no longer exist.

And the complexity of it is this:

We can miss those versions deeply…
without wanting to return to them.

We can feel both gratitude and longing.
Contentment and uncertainty.
Joy and sadness.

At the same time.

Through my work in wellbeing and face yoga, and through my NLP studies, I’ve come to see how much we hold onto—physically and emotionally.

We hold tension in the face.
We hold stories in the body.
We hold onto identities long after we’ve outgrown them.

And the practice—whether it’s through movement, awareness, or reflection—is learning to gently release.

Not to erase the past.
But to make space for the present.

Because growth isn’t about becoming someone completely new.

It’s about allowing yourself to evolve…
while honouring every version of you that got you here.