Have you ever watched someone you love lose a piece of their identity overnight? If you're someone who has lost a career, moved and started over, or supported someone through an unexpected transition, this story will show you that sometimes losing everything is how you find what matters most.
In November 2016, we moved to Texas for a fresh start. What we didn't fully prepare for was that my wife's entire 20-year career would become worthless the moment we crossed the state line.
"The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek." - Joseph Campbell
The Move That Changed Everything
The decision to move seemed right for different reasons.
My wife's older sister lived in Austin. She wanted to be closer to family. My best friend Eddie had moved to the Dallas area when his company relocated, and after training together for years, I wanted to be close to him again.
For me, the move felt right. For my wife, it was complicated. She had built a career in Missouri. She had friends, community, a life. But we both thought Texas would be our fresh start.
There was just one problem: her physical therapy license wouldn't transfer.
The Identity That Disappeared
My wife had been a physical therapist for over 20 years. She was trained in the Philippines, came to the United States, and was grandfathered into Missouri's licensing with her bachelor's degree.
But Texas had different requirements. The state required her to take more classes or to get a Doctor of Physical Therapy degree to practice. Her 20 years of experience didn't matter. Her bachelor's degree wasn't enough. The patients she had helped, the skills she had built, the career she had invested in—none of it transferred across that state line.
We knew this before we moved. My wife had wanted to change careers anyway, though she wasn't sure what to do next. But once we arrived in Texas and reality set in, the options became clear: go back to school for a doctorate or give up the profession entirely.
The cost of living in Texas was five times higher than Missouri. We needed her income. She decided to go back to school for her Doctor of Physical Therapy—an 18-month program that would allow her to practice again.
But 18 months meant 18 months without her income. And I would be the sole provider in a place where everything cost more.
"Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you." - 1 Peter 5:7
The Weight of Sole Provision
My wife's entire identity had been tied to her career. Her family in the Philippines had helped pay for her education. She had been supporting them financially for years. Being a physical therapist wasn't just what she did—it was who she was.
Suddenly, she couldn't work in her field. She couldn't contribute financially. She couldn't be the person she had been for two decades.
I think she felt stressed. Not just about the money, though that was real. But about losing the ability to help, to contribute, to be who she had always been.
And honestly, I think she was also dealing with endometriosis health issues at that time, which would have made working difficult anyway. But that didn't make the loss of identity any easier.
So I did what needed to be done. I got a second job.
The Two Years of Two Jobs
From 2018 to 2020, I worked two jobs:
Six days a week. Every week. For two years.
People ask me how working two jobs affected our marriage, my health, my life. Honestly? It didn't. It just had to be done. There was no other option. We needed to survive, and this was how we survived.
What kept me going? Willpower. The knowledge that it wouldn't be forever. The belief that we were building toward something better.
I thought it would just be for a season—support her through school, she'd graduate, she'd work again, and life would stabilize.
I didn't expect her to develop more severe health problems. I didn't expect the hysterectomy, the hospitalizations, the cancer diagnosis years later. But that's the thing about starting over: you never know what's coming next.
What Her 18 Months Taught Us
My wife finished her Doctor of Physical Therapy program in 18 months. She could practice again in Texas. Her career was restored—on paper, at least.
But something had shifted for both of us during those years.
At the time, we were just doing what we needed to do. Survival mode. Head down, keep moving, don't think too much about how hard it is.
But looking back now, I can see what that season taught us: Your career is not your identity.
For 20 years, my wife had been "a physical therapist." That's how she introduced herself. That's how her family saw her. That's how she saw herself.
Then suddenly, she wasn't. And she had to figure out who she was without that label.
I learned something too: You do what needs to be done, no matter what.
Not because you're a hero. Not because you're special. But because when life strips away your options, you find strength you didn't know you had. You work six days a week because that's what survival requires. You support your spouse through school because that's what partnership means.
That season prepared me for what came later—when my wife couldn't work because of health issues, when I lost my job after her cancer diagnosis, when we had no income for 10 months. I already knew how to do hard things for extended periods. I already knew that willpower and commitment could carry you through when nothing else could.
The Unexpected Redirect
Here's what I couldn't see then: starting over in Texas wasn't just about proximity to family and friends. It was setting us on a path we never would have chosen but desperately needed.
Without that move, without those two years of working two jobs, without learning that identity is deeper than career—I don't think I would have written my books. I don't think I would have understood what it means to truly start over.
When I eventually wrote "Mindset Metamorphosis" during my wife's cancer treatment and our financial crisis, I was drawing on lessons learned during those Texas years: adapt, keep learning, try new things, do what needs to be done.
Things happen for a reason. Not because life is fair or because God has a neat plan that makes sense in the moment. But because every hard season builds capacity for the next one.
Your Lost Identity
Right now, you might be facing your own identity crisis:
- A career that disappeared
- A move that stripped away your community
- A loss that changed who you thought you were
- A transition that feels like starting from zero
Here's what I want you to know:
Your career is not your identity. What you do for income is not who you are. When that job ends, when that license doesn't transfer, when that opportunity disappears—you're still you. Maybe even more yourself than before.
Starting over is not starting from zero. You carry every skill, every lesson, every bit of resilience with you. The external circumstances change, but the internal capacity remains.
Doing what needs to be done builds character. Working two jobs isn't glamorous. Supporting someone through school isn't exciting. But it builds the strength you'll need when bigger challenges come.
Try new things. Keep learning. Keep adapting. My wife could have given up on physical therapy. I could have resented the extra work. But we both kept moving forward, kept adapting, kept learning. That flexibility is what allowed us to survive everything that came after.
If you're starting over right now, know this: You're not behind. You're not failing. You're building capacity for what's next, even if you can't see it yet.
When you're ready, here's how I can help you:
Purchase my book "Mindset Metamorphosis"—written during a season when I had to completely redefine my identity and rebuild from circumstances I didn't choose. It's about transforming your thinking and taking action when life forces you to start over.
Remember: Feed your mind. Fuel your actions. Find your fire.
DK Kang
Author | Wellness Advocate | Plant-Based Athlete | LMT
dk@dkkang.com
www.dkkang.com
