I No Longer Feel Like Myself

*No AI has been used to write this article. All words are my own.*

I have started to feel like a stranger. 

Looking at photographs or into the mirror, I don’t recognize who I see. 

My body has changed, and I’m having a difficult time accepting it. I struggle because I no longer feel like me — and I want me back.  

What happened? 

I’m trying to figure it out. 

It began with some weight gain. A little extra here and there, a face that changed shape, a shift in dress size. 

My hair has changed. The colour no longer feels right, and I’m layers of too-dark dye away from finding my way back to a shade that feels like mine. 

There are random aches and pains that I cannot explain. Migraine attacks every six weeks. Random bouts of nausea. 

Amid all of it, I feel utterly out of control. Whose body is this? And what happened to the body I once felt at home in? 

But if I’m honest, this is about more than my body — my body is just the first thing I see. This is about a self I can no longer locate, no matter how hard I try. 

Sometimes, I wish I could walk around with a sign that reads ‘This is not me.’ That way, people could know that I’m in the wrong shell. What you see now is not the totality of who I know myself to be. 

I was the girl who self-produced a one-woman show and ran 10K on your average Sunday. 

My most recognizable personality trait was my ambition. 

I was the one who believed in the power of endless possibility; who used affirmations and practised manifestation. 

My dreams were as real as the table in front of me.

I was cheeky, cute, and sensual; I see it when I look at old photographs… 

Now, she is a whisper. A ghost captured unwittingly. Some days, it’s difficult to recall that she existed at all. 

She first began to disappear when I moved overseas. 

I’ve moved abroad before, but Vancouver hits different. 

For all the pleasure that exists in the way of nature and neighbourhood nooks, Vancouver is a notoriously difficult city to live in. 

I came here with a romanticized view of urban living: a high-rise apartment; cozy coffee shop meets; Fridays spent on a filmset somewhere in the city. 

In Vancouver, I was certain I would meet myself — a vibrant, ethereal, enhanced self. A self crafted from ideals. The ripened fruit of a vision planted long ago. 

In reality, I came to meet a stranger. And maybe I was naive to believe I would expand before contracting. You don’t change your life without losing something first. 

The first knock was surrendering 80% of my belongings. Items got sold, gifted, and tossed. My partner and I moved to Vancouver with a single suitcase each — and we’ve grown little beyond that. 

I never saw the inside of that high-rise apartment. Instead, we found ourselves living out of a van and housesitting back-to-back for two years. An adventure in itself, upping and moving every three weeks takes a huge toll. Routines were constantly disrupted — or never established to begin with. 

I had come to Vancouver to act, yet somehow found myself working less than I had in Sydney. (You can read the full story in my piece The Death of My Hollywood Dream.)

Meanwhile, I was introduced to the gig economy, where I soon discovered the pitfalls of inconsistent work. Transience seems to be the norm in Vancouver: Friends, jobs, and housing stability come and go like the night. 

I’ve been forced to become busier. This city demands that you hustle.  

And there’s something else… 

The horrors of the world have been brought to the forefront. Australia is tucked away, safe from feeling and somewhat ignorant. Vancouver throbs with the truth of the global political landscape. Along with the move, matters of corruption, exploitation, greed, and tragedy came into sharper focus. Now, I’m constantly burdened by the weight of weltschmerz (German for ‘world pain’). I’m sadder than I used to be. Angrier.

They say that the body keeps the score. As such, I saw it in the mirror first. 

I am a woman who has hardened. I see it in my eyes — once playful, now reality-stricken. Where my features were once alluring, I now find them intimidating. Sharp, like an eagle on the hunt. 

To everyone around me, I probably just look like Sarah. But I don’t feel like an eagle. On the inside, I am tender — even while alert. Vulnerable, like a mouse on the move.

The mirror lies. Or is it that I cannot accept who I have become? 

Stress can do a lot to a person. Your environment moulds you; it gets into your skin and stretches you in new directions.

But if I’m honest, this is about more than Vancouver — Vancouver was simply the catalyst. This is about a stripping away that I think was in many ways… inevitable. 

Maybe I was lost for longer than I realized. 

Perhaps I have found myself in Vancouver — I’m just yet to properly introduce myself. 

It could be that I’m getting too distracted by my shell. A body is meant to change, right? I’m sure I’ll go through a thousand transitions before I die…

And maybe I’m romanticizing the past; I’m forgetting the parts of me that were painful and repressed. 

I know what this is, of course: Grief. We talk about the grief we feel when we lose a person we love — but how about a self we loved? 

And I did love her. 

At the same time, I think I know I can’t get her back. I may reclaim parts of her — the ability to run 10K on your average Sunday; a lighter heart — but there is a lot that has transformed; I know that. I just have a hard time accepting it.  

So, maybe I just need to let my grief be loud for a little while longer.

Did this piece resonate with you?
I’d love to hear your thoughts — or for you to share it with someone who might relate.
You can email me, subscribe to Moonlight Blog on Substack, or explore similar reflections to this one:
When the Pressure of Expections Gets Too Much