We Broke Up, But We’re Still Friends

An Adult Love Story About Not Being Your Job Title

Here’s a story from my own front row seat.

Last year asked a lot of me. Not in a dramatic way, but in that unavoidable way where things simply stop fitting. Pretending they still do becomes exhausting. Especially the logistics of it all.

It wasn’t a year of gentle nudges. Some things I let go of consciously. Others were very clearly taken out of my hands by circumstances themselves. Doors didn’t just close, they quietly refused to open again. And other doors opened too. Doors I could not have imagined before. Funny how that works.

What surprised me most wasn’t the messiness or confusion.

It was the relief.

Especially the relief that came with letting go of an identity. A job title. Something I was busy doing, but that didn’t fully reflect who I am anymore. I didn’t realise how much effort it took to keep wearing it, and defending it even, until I finally put it down.

And here’s the nuance that matters: I’m still doing the work.

I just stopped letting it define me.

It shifted from “this is who I am” to “this is something I do, in my own way.” In that space, something else could emerge. I even ended up redefining what I’m doing altogether, on my own terms. That part surprised me too. It feels lighter. More fitting. More me.

This isn’t about career. It’s identity work. And I think it’s time we allow ourselves to separate those two again.

Somewhere along the way we started believing that the most professional, committed, respectable thing to do is to fully become our job. To merge our sense of self with our role, our title, our expertise. As if evolving means betraying what came before. As if letting something go automatically means you no longer love it.

But life changes. We change.
And shedding something doesn’t mean you suddenly hate it.

I still love animals. Deeply.
I still love the osteopathic approach, and I will happily die on that hill if needed. It deserves its place in the medical world. A bigger place even.
I still genuinely love the sessions I have with animals and their caretakers.

What has brought a surprising amount of relief and freedom is redefining what I actually have to give to animals and their people, without anchoring it to the title osteopath. Not because I reject it. Not because I don’t respect it. Quite the opposite.

But what I actually do has evolved so much over the past fifteen years that it no longer fits neatly inside what I once learned or how it’s usually labelled. So I ended up redefining what I’m doing with animals altogether, on my own terms. That part surprised me too. It feels lighter. More fitting.

And yes, it remains a gift that loyal clients and animals continue to find their way to me, despite all my ongoing evolution and experiments.

What I bring is my energy, my intention, my soft, listening approach. That comes with beautiful results. And with real limitations.

Both matter.

Along the way I’ve met so many incredible animals and people, and professionals deeply devoted to their craft. And honestly, I still think it’s one of the coolest things when forces can combine instead of compete. When different approaches are allowed to sit next to each other without needing to prove who’s right.

Letting go of a title doesn’t mean letting go of the work, or the love, or the respect for the field. It simply means giving it permission to evolve instead of freezing it at a point in time that no longer reflects where I am.

Because honestly, I still can’t fully explain what it is that I do. And I couldn’t before either. That used to stress me out.

Now I simply accept that part of my work lives outside neat explanations.

I work on intuitional autopilot. I feel, I listen, I attune, and then I move. And yes, I do it like a boss, with over thirty years of skill and education sitting safely in my brainy parts, fully available when needed. That foundation matters. It’s solid. It’s earned.

But methods, ratios and toolboxes are not the commanders in chief.

Something else is.

Something beyond titles, protocols and explanations. Something that can’t be neatly packaged or copied. And that’s exactly why I’ve stopped trying to explain it in ways that make it smaller.

The people who find their way to me don’t come for a label. Something in them recognises the field, the intention, the presence. And they trust that.

I love them for that.

I’m still very much in the middle of a changing season. I don’t yet know exactly where it’s leading me or what will rise out of it. But for the first time in a long while, that uncertainty feels less like a problem and more like freedom.

Looking back, I can see how much I was hiding behind certain roles. Not because they were wrong, but because they were familiar. Justified. Understandable for others. They gave me something to point at when people asked who I was.

Letting go of that didn’t give me answers. It gave me space.

And I’m still in it. Still shedding. Still listening. Still noticing how life nudges gently at first and then, when ignored, escalates.

I’ve come to trust that when something keeps slipping through your grasp, or keeps not working out as intended, it’s rarely punishment. It’s alignment trying to happen. With or without your cooperation.

So I’m genuinely curious: is there something you’re still doing, but no longer want to be?
A role, a title, an identity that once fit and now feels like effort?

If so, you’re not late. And you’re not broken. You’re probably just mid-shed. Right in the middle of becoming.

Love, Annemarijn (former animal osteopath, now just ‘Annemarijn’)