Transcript
Toby Brooks (0:04)
This is becoming undone. You ever reach the end of something and realize that you don't have any idea who you are anymore? It doesn't even have to be some grand dramatic moment. Sometimes it's quiet, subtle. A locker room door that clicks shut. Final email from hr. Last time you lace up your cleats. The last salute. The last shift. I've had some major shifts in my life over the years. For example, this week will mark one year exactly since I left my last job, the home and the town that I'd known the longest in my whole life. I started over in a new place with a lot of new people doing new things. The first time I remember such a massive shift, I was in a dank locker room in southern Illinois. Was a senior, 18 years old. My team had just been eliminated from the IHSA basketball playoffs. It was the last game of my high school career. Always seemed kind of melodramatic to call it that to me. But it was the last game that I'd play as a competitive athlete. No scouts in the stands, not for me anyway. No scholarship offers waiting in the wings. Just the hollow sound of a season and who I thought I was coming to a close. That crushing weight of defeat, that lingering feeling of failure. I waited until everybody left. And then I sat on that cold concrete floor. I just wept. I lost it. Felt like I'd lost everything. Because in a way, I had. I didn't just lose the game, I lost my identity. I wasn't an athlete anymore. I knew I was now a former something. And just that distinction alone wrecked me for years. I kept this to myself. There's kind of a whole Uncle Rico of it all. Kind of a pathetic old man yearning for the glory days when you weren't that good to begin with. But in the years that followed, I eventually found myself working with actual real life high performance athletes. D1 professional. Then later I'd come into contact with high achievers in other walks of life like the arts, the military, entrepreneurial circles. And what I discovered was that that younger version of me actually had nothing to be ashamed of. It was a fully human response to losing something that had been core to who I was. Maybe it happened sooner for me because I didn't have the skills to prolong my opportunities. But the emotions, they were the same. And maybe at 18, I was even less well equipped to handle them. What nobody tells you is that endings aren't just about what stops. They're about what shifts. They're about who you become when the title, the uniform or the spotlight disappears. Think of folks who serve in the military. I've talked to several Navy SEALs on the show. One day you're a big wig sergeant, so and so leader, a warrior, somebody that people depend on. And then on a random Tuesday, it's just done. You hand in the gear and suddenly you're just Joe again. Or a corporate exec or a university professor who built their whole identity around performance achievement being needed until they got downsized or retire. They realized that they don't know who they are without a full calendar and a corner office. Or maybe it's an Olympian. Somebody like Michael Phelps, history's most decorated Olympic champion. After winning more gold medals than anyone in history, by his own admission, he fell into a deep depression because the pool had been his identity, his therapy, his everything. And when it was over, he was lost. It can happen to anyone. Frequently it does. We've just stigmatized it. We shame, saddle it, and we learn to tuck it as far out of sight as possible. These are what I call purpose storms. Moments when it feels like the ground shifting and the questions get loud. Who am I now? What was all that for? What comes next? But here's the truth. Identity doesn't evaporate. It evolves. Well, sure, the heartbreak, that's real, that's valid. Where I was compelled to feel ashamed, I should have had support. Where I was lamenting what was behind. I could have been mentored to process and help heal. But here's the thing. If we can sit with that long enough, there's something even more beautiful underneath it all. A spark, Sliver of clarity, new direction. You might not be the athlete anymore, but maybe you're the mentor, the coach, the author, the entrepreneur. You might not wear the uniform anymore, but maybe you're finally ready to fight for yourself. What I've learned, the hard way for anything, is that you have to grieve the old before you can greet the new. Heard it said this way. We can't pick up the beautiful opportunities of tomorrow with hands that are still gripping the regrets and the griefs of yesterday. And the new. It's there, but it doesn't show up with applause and fanfare. It whispers. It waits. It needs you to believe in what could be, not just mourn what was. That's why I've built a coaching model I call the Undone Method. It's about rebuilding life from the inside out. That's why I learned the hard way through stages like uncovering who you are, designing what comes next, overcoming what holds you back, navigating change with courage and executing it all with intention. I'll share more on that in some future episodes and also in the new book that I'm working on that's due out this fall. But for now, if you're standing at the end of something, whether it's a season, a career, a dream, maybe this message is for you. I hope you'll let these words penetrate you to the bone. Hear me. You are not done. You're becoming. Let's get to work. This episode resonated with you. Do me a favor. Like share. Send it to somebody that needs to hear today. And if you're in the middle of your own purpose storm and want some help sorting through the pieces, check out my offerings on my website, tobyjbrooks.com I love to talk to you about speaking, about coaching, about coming alongside and helping you along the way. It's what I do. Next time on the show, I'm honored to talk with Nancy Kincaid, wife of late coach Dick Thomey. We'll talk legacy, leadership and loving someone through the highs and lows of a legendary life. Till then, reflect, realign, rebuild and remember. Even when it feels like it's over, it might just be the beginning. Sam.