How to Hold Your Leadership Identity When Roles Change A Real Season I Went Through
A season I went through taught me something I never wanted to learn: how to hold my leadership identity when roles change. Because the truth is, roles do change. Sometimes it happens slowly. Sometimes it happens overnight. Either way, it shakes you to the core.
I’ve been independent my whole life. I’ve always worked. At times I held down three jobs while going to school full-time. Back then I was also dating the woman who would become my wife. My life was always full. My work ethic was strong. My identity was tied to showing up, to providing, to being reliable.
But then everything started to shift. My nerves and my muscles began separating faster than I could keep up with. And that’s when the falls began.
The Back Room Fall
One day I was in the back room of a store where I worked. I fell, and my phone flew out of my pocket all the way across the floor. I couldn’t get up. I had to crawl across the room just to reach it.
When I finally picked it up, I called an employee on the floor and asked them to come help me. But I told them to come alone and not to bring anyone else. I didn’t want anyone to see me like that.
When they came in, I had to look them in the eye and ask them to help me off the floor. That moment broke me. It was humiliating. I had always been the one people depended on. Now I was the one asking.
The Coffee Shop Fall
Another time I walked out of a store with an employee. We were headed toward a coffee shop down the street. But before we made it far, I fell again.
I grabbed for anything I could — the glass window, the brick wall, even a trash can. None of it worked. I ended up on the ground anyway.
The employee had to pick me up. And in that moment, I realized that no matter how hard I tried to grab control, sometimes control isn’t possible.
The Restaurant Fall
Then there was the time I took a friend to a Mexican restaurant. We finished eating, and I tried to stand up from the booth. My legs gave out.
I fell backwards onto the table, knocking everything over — drinks, chips, guacamole, cheese. My friend scrambled to save the guacamole as if that could save the moment. But it didn’t.
The entire restaurant looked over. I had to grab my friend’s arm and lean on him all the way out to the car.
It was humiliating. And yet it was reality.
The Small Wins
But not everything was humiliation. Because there were also small wins.
Sometimes my wife takes me for short walks. We step off the patio, down the sidewalk, and back again. It’s only a few car lengths. But when I make it back without falling, I celebrate. That walk is a victory lap.
Another time I had to renew my license. My wife dropped me off at the front door of the DMV. I walked inside on my own without falling. To anyone else it may have looked small, but to me it was huge.
These are the wins that keep me going. They may be short. They may be slow. But they are still wins.
The Valleys
And yet, there are valleys. Valleys that feel darker than the falls. Valleys that press harder than the humiliation.
The valleys show up when we add more medical tools to the house. Rails on the bed to help me get in and out. A tool to help me put on socks. A walker to lean on. And deep down, I know a wheelchair is coming. But I fight it.
I fight it because it feels like the last step. It feels like giving up. So instead I tell myself: left leg, right leg, left leg, right leg. Every step takes concentration. Every step feels like a battle.
But the valleys aren’t just physical. They’re mental.
I’m in my late 50s. I’ve worked my whole life. I’ve always been the one to contribute, to provide, to carry the weight. And now, all of a sudden, I can’t work at all.
I sit in my chair. I stay inside. Even going outside to the patio is a lot of work. It takes everything in me just to get there. And so I sit. And I think. And sometimes I sink.
That’s when the depression creeps in. I wonder why this had to happen to me. I wonder what’s left. I wonder if my best days are gone.
It got worse when I went to the doctor and first got the walker. I was told: “This is the best it’s going to be. It’s only going to get worse from here.” That’s not the kind of report you want to hear from your doctor. And it hit me hard.
So I look at my life and I see restrictions everywhere. I see what I can’t do. I see what’s fading. And I ask, “Is this really the best it’s going to be?”
And then the voice in my head says: “What value do you even bring anymore?”
That’s the deepest valley.
Because now my wife carries the weight. She takes out the trash. She goes to parent-teacher conferences. She shows up at our daughter’s choir performances. She does it all while I sit at home. She represents both of us when I can’t be there. And that reality cuts deep.
The Shift
When I first retired from working, I thought I’d step right into coaching. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t coach people when I couldn’t even get myself together. I didn’t want to fake it. I didn’t want to tell someone else how to find hope when I couldn’t find it myself.
For a couple months, I sat in that place. Wondering if I had any value left. Wondering if I had anything to give.
But in the middle of those mornings, sitting with my coffee at 3 or 4 a.m., I began to listen differently. I began to pray differently. I began to hear God reminding me that my role had changed, but my identity had not.
My wife reminded me too. My kids reminded me. They told me they still see me. They told me I still matter. And little by little, I began to believe it.
That’s when coaching became possible. Because I realized leaders don’t need someone to stand above them with all the answers. Leaders need someone to encourage them. To breathe wind into their sails. To tell them they don’t have to drift through life.
And that became my mission: to help leaders believe their next season can be their best season. To help them build systems and processes that give them stability. To help them find accountability that gives them strength. To help them see that success is still possible, even if the path looks different.
What This Season Taught Me About Leadership
Looking back, here’s what I’ve learned about holding your leadership identity when roles change:
- Ask for help quicker than your pride wants you to.
Leaders who wait too long to ask for help lose more than time. They lose trust. Shorten the distance between falling and asking. - Celebrate small wins, because they keep momentum alive.
Leadership is not always about big leaps. Sometimes it’s three car lengths of steady steps. Count it. Celebrate it. Stack it. - Adopt the tools before you are forced to.
Tools are not a sign of weakness. They are a strategy for sustainability. Leaders who embrace tools early keep their teams and themselves moving forward. - Anchor your identity deeper than your role.
Roles change. Titles shift. Responsibilities come and go. But your identity — the core of who you are — is steady. That’s the part that keeps you leading, even when roles change.
Conclusion
A season I went through taught me how to hold my leadership identity when roles change. Because leadership is not about always being strong, always being present, or always being able to do what you once did. Leadership is about asking for help when you need it. It’s about celebrating small wins that keep you moving. It’s about using the tools that free you to keep going. And above all, it’s about remembering that your role may change, but your identity does not.
If you are in a season like mine, you are not less. You are being trained to lead in a deeper way.