The Freefall: Jumping without a title

In those first few weeks, you finally remembered how to breathe.

There’s no calendar stacked with back-to-back meetings. No relentless ping of emails. No agenda beyond your own soul’s. You sleep deeper. Walk slower. Float in your pool and wonder if this is what peace actually feels like. And for a time, maybe days, maybe weeks, it is.

A friend of mine who recently stepped down from a CEO role said:

"You jump out of a plane and at first there’s adrenaline. Freedom. But then you realize you’re falling. And you think… what the f*ck did I just do?”

You don’t miss the job. You miss the gravity. The sense of orbit. The velocity. The applause. You miss the illusion that busyness equaled purpose. Now you sit in stillness, and it feels like exile.

“You used to be someone,” your mind whispers.

That voice isn’t just yours. According to Harvard Business Review, more than 70% of senior leaders report feeling a loss of identity after leaving a major role. Think of this as a soul detox. It’s not failure. It’s chemistry. It’s what happens when the scaffolding falls away and your system starts recalibrating to something more true.

You spent decades mastering a system that taught you to measure worth by output, urgency, and applause. Now you’re here — still, silent, questioning. And something deeper starts to wake up.

Another leader told me:

“I’d put on this metaphorical suit every day. The CEO suit. The guy with the answers. The guy people listen to. And then... I took it off. And I didn’t quite know who I was anymore.”

There is no title that can substitute for meaning. No corner office that compares to presence. Real leadership is staying in the liminal space long enough for clarity to find you. This is the path few take, because it’s quiet. Because it doesn’t look like progress. But it is.

Maybe the recruiter calls. Maybe you feel the pull to update your bio, build the brand, say the right thing. The pressure to reattach is strong. But over 50% of executives who jump into the next thing too fast regret it within 18 months. Because clarity doesn’t come on a contract. It comes in the quiet.

This messy middle? This is the real alchemy. The remembering. The rediscovery. The reimagining. As one of my clients put it:

“I didn’t want to waste the opportunity to do the deep work.”

So don’t waste it. Honour it.

If you’re here:

Don’t rush to define. We are obsessed with declaring what's next. Slapping a label on it. Making a plan. Turning uncertainty into a tidy LinkedIn update. But this space, this in-between, is not dead air. It's compost. It's where the real stuff breaks down and becomes new life. So, let it steep. Let the questions do their gentle, holy work.

Revisit your values. The ones you actually feel in your body. What makes you exhale? What makes you want to get up in the morning (even if you don’t yet)? Write them down. Pin them to the fridge. Whisper them when the doubt gets loud.

Talk to someone who’s been there. And by that I mean someone who won’t try to coach or optimise you out of this moment. Someone who will just nod and say: yep, it’s disorienting. Yep, it’s hard. And no, you’re not crazy for feeling both free and terrified at the same time.

Build small structure. A walk. A gentle practice. Mornings with no phone. Conversations that don’t begin with “So, what do you do now?” You’re not designing a new system for yourself, just laying soft tracks so you don’t float away.

Expect the ego to get loud. It’ll yell that you’re irrelevant now. That you should be doing more. It’ll try to rush you into a new identity so it can quiet its own discomfort. But your ego’s not your enemy. It’s just scared. Smile at it. Thank it. And tell it gently: “We’re not going back. We’re not measuring worth like that anymore.”

This is about remembering. About unbecoming. About sitting still long enough that the truer thing can find you. It’s a season of reconstitution. A chance to shift from being useful to being true.

The rise of the invisible self

Eventually, something softens. You stop performing. You start listening. To your instincts. To your son’s laugh. To the aching places inside you that only now have space to speak.

You’re becoming. Not a version engineered for LinkedIn or shareholder value. But the version of you that was always waiting beneath the performance.

Becoming the elder you once looked for. Becoming the kind of leader who doesn't need a title to serve. Becoming someone who walks slower, speaks wiser, and listens better.

So don’t rush it. Sit with it. Let it shape you.

Let it be what it is: awkward, clarifying, regenerative. Because what’s coming is different. And you...unarmoured, awake, a little undone, will be ready for it.

You still are someone. You always were. You’re just becoming more you.