Losing a Label: Finding Myself: Letting Go of Professional Identity

What happens when the labels we’ve worked so hard to acquire no longer fit? Many of us invest years of study, considerable sums of money and a great deal of effort in earning professional qualifications. We may be entitled to use a particular title or put letters after our name. But identities change, and the symbols of belonging that once meant so much don’t always suit us anymore.

I know that feeling. I’ve been there twice.

My Own Hard-Earned Labels

I fell into my first career in accountancy by answering a job advert in the local paper. It wasn’t a sector I’d ever imagined myself in. Still, I gave it my best shot. A patient man called Mike showed me the ropes during the day, while I studied relentlessly, poring over textbooks before and after work. At times, I was so bored I could scream.

But perseverance paid off. I became a chartered tax practitioner, passing the exams on my first attempt at a time when only half of candidates made it through. I was chuffed to bits to have those well-earned letters after my name, and my career flourished. Within a few years, I was a manager in an international partnership.

Yet, for all the security and status, I realised that the work didn’t align with my deeper values. It paid well, but it wasn’t nourishing. I didn’t feel I was making enough of a difference to society. So I turned to activities outside work to provide meaning, making a point each morning of doing something productive before the working day began. I shared this strategy with a colleague, and we both found that our mental state improved.

It was around this time that I chanced upon occupational therapy (OT). The realisation that meaningful activity can promote physical and mental health was a revelation. I wanted to learn how to build on that insight, not only to help others but also to heal myself.

After three years of training, I earned my stripes. From the start, I loved my new profession, and I never stopped learning. I formed lifelong friendships, including with a couple of people who’ve shared the journey since day one of college. Those drawn to OT often share a philosophy about the healing power of activity, and that makes for an interesting and diverse community.

When the Label Stopped Fitting

Towards the end of my OT career, I found myself increasingly constrained by the codes, regulations and obligations that came with professional membership. I was still studying, perhaps more than ever, but I no longer wanted to keep formal records or tick boxes. I cared deeply about ethics, but I wanted more freedom to live by my own convictions rather than having my professional life governed by institutional requirements.

Clicking the unsubscribe buttons on the websites of the Health and Care Professions Council and the Royal College of Occupational Therapists was a very big deal indeed. In doing so, I marked the end of an era. I could no longer call myself an occupational therapist, as it’s a legally protected title.

And yet, by relinquishing my professional identity, I regained something of the essence that had drawn me to the career in the first place. I also came away with an enormous metaphorical toolbox filled with skills from both of my previous professions. These continue to serve me well.

I no longer have to complete mandatory professional training or maintain formal records of my activities. But I still study, and even read the odd occupational therapy book from cover to cover. Now, that’s something I never had time to do while I was working!

And what about ethics? I like to think I adhere to a high moral code, but it’s one I’ve developed from my own convictions and experience. I still care about doing the right thing, but I have more freedom to decide what that means in practice.

Without the professional baggage, I feel much freer to express opinions that might be considered radical or a bit out there. I can write about what I believe without worrying that my views might jeopardise my livelihood or put my professional registration at risk.

For example, I don't believe that evidence-based practice has all the answers. During my career, I worked with people whose needs didn't always fit neatly into research categories. Take older people living with dementia alongside complex health conditions. They could be excluded from studies because of the practical and ethical difficulties involved, meaning that the findings weren't always applicable to them.

It could become a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't situation. Follow the evidence when it didn't quite fit, or go off piste and risk being criticised for doing so.

I still value research, but now I feel much more comfortable pointing out its limitations. There's a freedom in being able to question established thinking and explore other perspectives without worrying about the professional consequences.

Letting Go of Professional Identity as a Spiritual Practice

Letting go isn’t easy. But when we release what no longer serves us, we create space for something new. Since stepping away from professional membership, I’ve discovered freedom in many forms:

• Simplicity: No more professional record-keeping or risk forms.

• Creativity: I write and explore alternative healing practices without worrying about whether they fit within professional boundaries.

• Inquiry: I study widely, following curiosity wherever it takes me.

• Caring for the Self: I have more room to notice what I need and make choices accordingly.

• Love in Action: I can devote time to unpaid caring without worrying about how it might affect my professional life.

What's more, letting go has given me space to rediscover parts of myself I'd neglected while working. Writing, mosaicking and spiritual inquiry have come to the forefront. There's also the new me who grows vegetables and has recently started volunteering with Locate International, where I'll be helping to investigate the disappearances of missing people.

Letting go didn't erase my identity. It transformed it.