Major life transitions can trigger a strong sense of identity loss.

The brain often responds to uncertainty with fear-based thinking as a protective mechanism.

Financial and logistical stress can intensify emotional vulnerability during major transitions.

What feels like an ending is often experienced internally as the collapse of a familiar version of self.

Months ago, even the thought of this would make me emotional. Now, I think I’ve found ways to cope with it, and I want to share that.

I am about to graduate from my doctorate program, and even thinking about it makes me feel sad. Because this journey changed my entire life.

I came to Austin in August 2020, risking everything, starting my life from scratch with two children, moving from Astana. I left a well-paying job and chose to apply for a Ph.D. program.

Just for clarification, committing to a Ph.D. is not only about classes or research. It’s your entire life. Your lifestyle changes. Your habits change. You cut expenses for four to five years. You accept being financially limited—willingly.

I’m not saying it’s bad. But with two children, it’s challenging, especially if you're used to a comfortable life.

When we first arrived, I didn’t adjust right away. I bought a car, put premium gas in it like I used to, ate out with my kids, and bought things I didn’t need, until I realized the money was disappearing.

I felt stressed out, and I became wildly angry because the money was so limited; I didn’t know how to manage it or even how to cut back on basic things. But at the same time, there was something familiar in it. Coming from the former Soviet Union, I had already experienced periods of scarcity, so I knew how to switch into survival mode.

It’s not necessarily a good or bad thing, but I learned how to pull myself together, shrink my needs, and focus only on what was essential.

The timing made it even harder. I planned to come in 2023, but I got accepted in 2022. I applied in May, got accepted in August, and had to be in Austin immediately. Before that, I had invested all my money into property back home, not expecting this move.

So I arrived with very little money, but thankfully, I had friends who helped me.

Everything was new. Living alone in an apartment, being recently divorced after 10 years of marriage, and doing everything by myself was new to me.

I had only three days to find a place to live.

I arrived with seven suitcases, two kids, no credit card, an international driver’s license, and cash.

We barely managed to rent a car. I had to speak with the supervisor, who gave us a car at the airport. I put all our suitcases inside, my kids got in, and it was already getting late.

By the time I set up my new SIM card, it was around 8 p.m.

We drove to the hotel I had booked online, but because of post-COVID rules, they didn’t accept cash. And for some reason, my debit card didn’t work. They refused us.

We went to another hotel. Same situation. Rejection.

Now it’s 11:30 p.m. Dark. I’m in an unfamiliar place, with two kids and seven suitcases. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. My kids were watching.

I remember my body was shaking, my hands were trembling, but somehow, I pulled myself together, drove to another hotel, and begged them to accept cash.

At that point, I didn’t feel tired anymore. I didn’t feel anything, just numb.

My kids were sitting in the lobby, half asleep, completely quiet after a 22-hour journey from Astana to Almaty to Frankfurt to Austin. They hadn’t had lunch or dinner. They did not complain or ask questions. They were shocked seeing me like this.

We finally got a room. They went straight to bed. At 5 a.m., we were already up again, searching for an apartment.

Within three days, we found an apartment. No time for jet lag. My kids were like soldiers. I’m so proud of them.

Little by little, I started my program. Built a routine. Met new people. Created a new life.

I remember sitting in lectures and suddenly feeling emotional, thinking about my kids and their future. Wondering if I took away their comfort because of my dream. Thinking about that motivated me more to show them that we can create our own peace and heaven slowly, through obstacles, and that it will become the life we build ourselves. Not by following someone else’s path, but by creating our own.

I love my work; it has become my life. I work with communities, conduct research, support traumatized populations, study mental and behavioral health, publish, teach, and attend conferences.

Isn’t that what we call fulfillment?

Doing what you truly want, being passionate about it, is a privilege.

Somewhere along the way, I built a new identity. New people, new routine, new version of myself.

I realized I was attached to the version of myself that existed inside it.

And maybe that’s why it feels so hard now.

Because it’s not just about finishing a program; it’s about stepping away from something that became part of me.

My identity became attached to this life.

And when you step away from something that feels like “you,” it’s scary. Why? Because the future is unknown.

And our brain doesn’t like the unknown. It creates thoughts, scenarios, doubts, trying to protect us, but at the same time, making everything feel heavier.

But I’ve started to notice that pattern.

And I know it tries to exaggerate sometimes.

Well…maybe not always, but enough. And when I see that, it is easier to step back.

In those moments, I try not to follow the negative thought patterns. I let things be. I tell myself: It’s okay. No one is going to die. And even if something extreme happens, well, that’s life, too. It’s still okay. I try to accept it, let go, and not hold onto it. Everything is a lesson in some way, and I will be fine regardless of the outcome.

I have moved many times, between states, countries, starting over again and again. And every time, I rebuilt.

So I know this too: Everything is temporary—people, places, routines, even identities.

Everything can be rebuilt—new communities, new life, new structure.

If life becomes too comfortable, we stop growing, so sometimes, change is not loss, it’s movement.

And maybe that’s why I’m writing this; I am still trying to understand myself.

But one thing I see more clearly now, the same way I once arrived in a new city, at night, with nothing clear ahead of me…I am standing in a similar place again. A different situation, but the same feeling of the unknown.

And just like before, I will figure it out.

If this resonates with you, maybe ask yourself this: “What if this feeling is not about loss, but about becoming someone I haven’t met yet?”

Because in the end, it’s all part of the process—a lesson or a big transition.

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