You Haven't Lost Your Passion. You've Outgrown It.
Wake-Up Call #51
I recall the moment I realized my passion had left the building.
For seven years, I owned a yoga studio in Hell’s Kitchen, NYC. Taught a dynamic, highly-physical style of vinyasa yoga, and immersed myself deeply in the practice. It worked for me, my body, and mind. And, I loved teaching it. Back then, yoga wasn't just what I did; it was who I was. It defined my days, a big part of my social circle, my livelihood, and in no small part—my identity.
But gradually, teaching and running the business became exhausting, the studio felt like a heavy obligation, and even my personal practice, once energizing, started to feel hollow. My body began reaching for a different kind of physical and spiritual practice, a gentler way, not bound by the structures of vinyasa or even yoga. My mind, too, yearned to explore a more expansive set of modalities.
It was, how do I put this, unsettling.
How could I lose passion for something that had once meant so much to me?
How could I even consider stepping away from an identity—and career—I'd worked so hard to build?
Maybe you’ve felt something similar, waking up to the uncomfortable realization. Something that once spoke to a deep curiosity, brought you joy, purpose, or excitement now leaves you feeling indifferent—or worse, drained.
It's confusing. Scary.
Questions flood your mind, "What's wrong with me? Have I lost my way? Am I just lazy, ungrateful, burned out?"
Here’s the thing. Oftentimes, in these moments…
You haven’t lost your passion—you've simply outgrown it.
Which begs the question, what exactly is a passion?
Passion is often born of interest or curiosity. Over time, as you follow the thread, and invest energy into it, it builds into something more; a profound emotional and motivational state, driven by meaningful engagement and often tied to our sense of identity and purpose.
Research suggests passions may also emerge from activities that fulfill deep psychological needs like autonomy, competence, and connection. They feel inherently rewarding, energizing, and even effortless at first. Many may last for years, a lifetime even. That said, passions aren't always permanent or static. They can be pretty dynamic, shifting as we learn, evolve, and mature.
What captivated us at 25 might feel trivial or unfulfilling at 45—not because we've failed, not because we’re lost, but because we've evolved.
Yet we often resist acknowledging these changes, especially when we're particularly skilled at or publicly recognized for the passion we've outgrown. When they’ve, in some way, become a part of the narrative of our lives. We cling desperately to outdated identities, fearing judgment, loss of status, or the uncertainty of what's next.
Sometimes, it’s not about our own grasping.
Others may want us to keep centering that old passion in our lives because their relationship with us is built around it. Friends who knew me primarily through yoga struggled with my decision to sell the studio. To walk away from my identity as the yoga guy. My change forced them to confront a shift in their relationship with me, creating discomfort on both sides. It’s understandable why we hesitate—letting go can feel like losing connections we deeply value. And, yet, the more we cling to a fizzled passion, the more we foreclose the possibility for new ones to emerge.
Consider the successful corporate executive who suddenly realizes climbing the ladder has lost its meaning, even though it’s their primary identity. Or the celebrated artist whose passion for a particular medium approach, school or style fades, leaving them feeling trapped by public expectations and personal history. Perhaps it's the popular writer, or podcaster who feels a deep disconnect from the topics or genre they've built their brand around. These aren't signs of personal failure or ingratitude; they're proof of growth beyond previous versions of themselves.
Passions are built to ebb and flow, and so are we.
That said, I’d be remiss if I didn’t also note that certain elements of our identity do, in fact, remain fairly consistent throughout adulthood. Research into personality psychology, particularly the Big Five personality traits (openness, conscientiousness, extraversion, agreeableness, and neuroticism), suggests these traits typically stabilize once we reach maturity. Your innate openness to new experiences or general level of introversion or extraversion likely remains relatively stable over long windows of time, if not for life.
But, many other aspects—our values, priorities, interests, and indeed, passions—can change profoundly. It’s entirely normal that the work, hobbies, or relationships that we felt a sense of passion for earlier in life no longer align with who we've become. Or, yearn to become.
And, here’s the thing…
Clinging to a faded passion leads to smallness and suffering.
Holding tightly to a passion that keeps pleading for keys to the exit often leads to significant suffering, self-doubt, and resentment. It feels like self-betrayal—because it is.
We betray our evolving selves to protect a familiar but outdated version of who we once were.
Recognizing this truth can be painful, yet profoundly liberating.
When I finally acknowledged that yoga was no longer my passion, it was a moment of reckoning. Yet, owning that truth allowed me to release it as a defining element of my identity. I eventually sold the studio, clearing space to explore emerging curiosities—like writing, podcasting, and a more expansive set of questions about how we grow and evolve and live.
The grief of letting go was real, but momentary, and the freedom on the other side was enduring and powerful.
What I’ve come to believe is…
Growth often masquerades as loss.
Beneath the discomfort of letting go lies quiet wisdom signaling readiness for something new.
Losing the fire of a passion isn't failure; it's intuition whispering you're ready to move beyond old identities and limits.
With a whole lotta love & gratitude,
Jonathan
Wake-Up Call #51 | Release Faded Passion.
Today, here's my gentle invitation to you.
Pause.
Consider whether there’s something you once were passionate about that doesn’t quite tickle you in the same way any more. But, that faded passion still claims a fair bit of your emotional, cognitive, or even financial resources, and time.
What if you let it go?
What might that look like?
What might it free up for you?
Give yourself permission to grieve its loss, and maybe the part of your identity that was tethered to it, and that you're leaving behind.
Then, ask yourself…
"What quietly excites me now?"
Perhaps it's subtle—a new interest, a quiet curiosity, or a gentle pull toward something previously dismissed. Take a moment to listen carefully to that inner voice. Write down one small curiosity you've noticed but haven't yet explored.
Then, take the smallest possible step toward it today.
Your passion hasn't disappeared; it's evolving.
And so are you.
As always, think on it, feel on it, walk with it. And if you’re open to sharing what comes up, love to benefit from the wisdom of your experience in the comments.
We founded a bookstore in Mexico--my passion after retirement from San Francisco corporate world. We'd planned it for 3 years, buying books and warehousing them after our back room got too full, located a spot on the town zocalo, paid in advance 2 years to 'secure' the location, and got up and running the year we retired. It was so much fun for so many years, but finally, we wanted to re-retire, just kick back like all the tourists, sit on the beach, go to pyramid sites, take longer trips. We sold to a great couple who cherish it as we did. It was time to move on. And practice, yes, il far niente!
I’ve been restless my whole life. Not in the charming, spontaneous way people like to describe in dating profiles, but a bone-deep unease. A sense that I was built wrong—too much, not enough, tangled in a shape others tried to neaten. I wore the expectations of others like a second skin: teachers, relatives, well-meaning friends. Growing up in the era of passion, it was all about finding it, defining it, & shaping a life around it. You had to know what you were meant to do. “Live your best life,” they screamed from couches, covers, & podcasts. I didn’t have one—not in the way they expected.
So I turned to yoga, hoping to calm the spinning. I moved through the poses, bent myself into stillness, & during those final ten minutes—lying under a weighted blanket, her aunt’s music humming through the air—I wept. Not the cute, cinematic tear. I wept. My body didn’t ask for permission. It emptied. Was I unwinding? Or unraveling? I didn’t know. Still don’t.
Yet something soft started to rise once the distractions quietened. Once I turned down the volume on the pressure to define my worth, to achieve, to keep up with the stories that told me I wasn’t enough. I began to feel what was left beneath the noise. Turns out, I’d already been taking care of myself without knowing—in tiny ways, private ways.
The way I make tea. The way I fold towels. The way I notice the soft shift in the air before the weather changes, even when the forecast insists otherwise. The way my feet make the floor feel a little more solid, as if the weight of my step is marking time, just before the quiet swallows it all again. How the hum of the refrigerator is somehow comforting when everything else is still. The way the old kettle boils, its whistle the only thing that feels like time moving forward, but without urgency.
These observations were not quirks, but clues to that presence in a rhythm of a life that is mine.
There’s no apology for it now. I am me. Still a little restless. Still peeling off the layers of old versions I never really fit into. I simply no longer ask, “What am I supposed to be?” I just notice what already is.
And maybe, in this season of exploration, what is… is the written word. I’ve never written publicly before—not like this. Not with my name breathing alongside the sentences. But curiosity seems to be leaning in that direction, so I’m listening. Not chasing a passion. Just paying attention.