Do you ever look at your past self and think, “Oh, sweetie”? I certainly have. Reinvention is a funny thing; it sneaks up on you in moments when you least expect it—sometimes in life-altering waves, and sometimes as tiny glimmers of change that become the bedrock of something entirely new. For me, reinvention has also felt a bit like life hosting its own fashion week: every few seasons, it flips the runway I’m strutting on, demanding I adopt a fresher fit for contrasting weather ahead.

But what does reinvention really mean? It’s not about becoming a trimmer, shinier, grindset-loving version of yourself. Instead, it’s about excavation—peeling back habits that no longer serve you, much like repainting a canvas in a museum’s conservation lab. (Apologies, my art metaphors tend to weave in when I’m not paying attention.) Reinvention is as much about addressing what’s underneath as it is about stepping forward into something new. So, let’s explore how shifting personal seasons—whether curated or thrust upon us—can be fertile ground for transformation.

The Breakup that Made Me Meet Myself

Here’s a truth bomb for you: the most transformative mirror you’ll ever hold may not come from a heartbreak itself but from the wide, echoing space it leaves behind. There I was—28 years old and excruciatingly single—staring down at my flawlessly tiled Manhattan bathroom floor after an emotionally catastrophic breakup. I loved him (he vibrated between “Byronic poet” and “dangerously allergic to commitment”). He claimed he wasn’t good enough for me (scientifically proven: unless this is about hobbies like improv, this means he sucks but doesn’t want it on his LinkedIn).

He left, and with him went my finely curated identity as the “effortlessly cultured girlfriend.” For a hot minute, I spiraled. My version of spiraling? Sipping cappuccinos while rereading Mrs. Dalloway on my Upper East Side balcony, pretending my life was directed by Sofia Coppola. Cute, sure—but empty.

Reinvention came in the smallest moment, almost banal in its simplicity. One morning, I pulled my Italian leather ballet flats down from the shelf and thought, “How would Veronica look barefoot?” I know—peak dramatic. But hear me out: being that put-together woman had come to define me. I volunteered at curated art spaces, threw wine-and-cheese nights full of je ne sais quoi, and woke up in tidy white linens with painted fingernails. I’d been performing perfection for someone else’s sake. That question—how would I look barefoot—flipped the script. I chipped my nails, signed up for a completely out-of-character pottery class (my vase still looks like melted candle wax), and left plenty of mascara smudged after late-night Ella Fitzgerald singalongs. Slowly but surely, the version of me that emerged felt looser, lighter…alive.

Career Curves, Not Ladders

I won’t bore you by saying I “left a six-figure job to pursue my passion.” This isn’t LinkedIn. But I will tell you about the moment I said yes to unpredictability. I’d been working as an assistant curator at a small museum—a dream for my Columbia-graduate self. My life tracked like a carefully edited press release until one coffee-fueled afternoon. I was sent on assignment to meet an emerging artist who painted exclusively with mud she scooped from the Hudson River. The backdrop? A Brooklyn studio packed with ambient electronic music, plastic flamingos, and one too many LaCroix cans.

The artist, mid-chat about existentialism, said with absolute confidence, “You know how the world doesn’t care until you surprise it?” Cue an internal mic drop. I realized I’d been curating not just art but also my linear career path to “matter” in polished, perfect ways. By the time I’d taken the train back to Manhattan, I decided to launch my own boutique literary imprint. Everyone thought I was nuts, including my parents (always supportive but occasionally bewildered). The adjustment meant chaos, a steep learning curve, and fewer gallery openings—but it also rekindled my love for championing creativity without pretension. That surprise the artist spoke of? It works.

The Parisian Flop Era (aka: When Odyssey Meets Own-to-Your-Failure Season)

Not every reinvention moment is obvious at first blush. Mine sometimes looked (and smelled) like stale croissants. Take my time in Paris—for which I set expectations unreasonably high. Think: Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face—minus the jaunty musical numbers—a swish of eyeliner, a thousand ideas blooming under chestnut trees, etc. Instead, my summer residency resulted in more existential floundering than baguettes embraced against my bosom. My French was atrocious, my apartment was effectively four walls and a toaster, and every time I ordered café crème, someone corrected me with the vigor of a furious kindergarten teacher.

But you know what they say about rock bottoms—they’re prime excavation sites. When I allowed myself to stop trying to “fit in” (or look chic while doing so), I became okay with long afternoons of bad sketches and quiet walks by the Seine. Paris stopped being a romance novel and turned into a slower, tender affair with myself. It was never about “becoming French.” It was about learning that expectations (even Pinterest-level ones) aren’t sacred. Sometimes the version you land on is far quieter than your plan, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. (Not a metaphor for relationships…this time.)

How to Reinvent Without the Existential Angst (ish)

Let’s be real: change can feel cataclysmic. But reflection, guidance, and a dab of humor make the process just a bit lighter. While I’m hardly an oracle, here are practices that served me well:

  1. Unfollow Your Past Self (Yes, Literally)
    Sometimes reinvention requires a small rebellion. Not against anyone else—but against you. Start with a cull: shelf the opinions of 3-years-ago-you, whether it's the rigid wardrobe aesthetic or a self-imposed title (“The friend who knows all the good wine bars” is a heavy cape to carry, trust me).

  2. Try Something Embarrassing Once a Month
    Want an instant transformation hack? Let yourself be the rookie. For me, it was salsa dancing in a tragically ill-fitted dress. What’s yours: stand-up comedy, karaoke in your pajamas, signing up for fencing (because swords = drama)?

  3. Remember, No One’s Actually Watching
    The first time you fail (or flounder), your brain will scream “EVERYONE KNOWS!” They don’t. Dance badly. Go back to school at 42. Start baking and prepare to destroy a few soufflés. Embarrassment is short-term; novelty builds long-term joy.

  4. Buy a Ridiculous New Accessory
    You’d be surprised what the right statement object can pull off. When I ordered obnoxiously round yellow glasses in my post-toxic romance era, they weren’t just lenses—they were character development. (The courage to wear them came shortly after.) Symbolic? Sure. Effective? Also yes.

Reinvention Isn’t Reinvention If You’re Still You

If you forget everything else here, at least chew on this: change isn’t about scrubbing one version of yourself clean to sculpt something entirely different. Instead, it’s a conversation—a series of lean-ins, self-surprises, and pensive pauses. In my best, most visually-fueled description: it’s layering paint on canvas. You don’t lose what sits underneath, but you also don’t stay stuck staring at one tiny corner forever.

If you’re feeling stuck—or even just curious—welcome the mess. Smudge the lines, trip over your own sense of direction, and try on something new. Barefoot, mismatched, wobbly, or all of it in one fabulous meltdown—you might be surprised how you look.