(by Dr. Lori Noga)

A dear friend called me last week, and I could hear the shell shock in his voice before he even said hello.

He had just sold his dental practice. His youngest had just left for college. He sold his dream house. Moved to a new state. And started working in a totally new capacity.

In other words: He’s in the bardo.

Actually, scratch that. His exact words were:

“Lori, I think I’m in the Bombardo.”

And I absolutely lost it.

Because YES. That’s exactly what it feels like when everything, every single identity you’ve carefully constructed, changes at once.

Not just your job.

Not just your family structure.

Not just your zip code.

But your entire sense of self.

One chapter doesn’t gently close while another slowly opens with soft lighting and a soundtrack. They all detonate simultaneously, and suddenly you’re standing in the smoking rubble wondering if you’re supposed to laugh, cry, or just go back to bed and call it a day.

Welcome to the Bombardo, friends. Population: More of us than anyone wants to admit.

Signs You Might Be in the Bombardo:

• You pause for three full seconds when someone asks what you do, then fumble your words and say something that makes absolutely no sense.
• You cry in the car to “Mad World,” but only a little, so it doesn’t technically count as a breakdown.
• You make lists obsessively but can’t remember what any of them were supposed to accomplish.
• You keep saying “this is fine” while your left eye develops a subtle but persistent twitch.
• You’ve asked ChatGPT “How to know if you’re having an identity crisis” more times than you care to admit.
• Every decision feels simultaneously urgent and impossible.

My Personal Bombardo? Oh, Honey, I’ve Had One.

2012. Picture this:

I was 28 weeks pregnant with my second son. And I opened my first dental practice.

Not bought an existing practice with established patients and predictable cash flow. Built one. From the literal ground up. Construction dust, branding meetings, marketing campaigns, hiring staff, zero patients, and a lease payment that made me sweat.

But I was “fine.” (Of course I was fine. Fine was my middle name.)

I had a launch plan. I had protein bars. I had some pregnancy-hormone-fueled confidence that bordered on clinical delusion.

And then-BOOM!!

My son decided to make his grand entrance at 34 weeks. Fast, furious, no warning. Like the universe hit the emergency eject button and said, “Surprise! Let’s see how you handle THIS plot twist.”

So there I was:

→ A new mom to a premature baby who needed me in ways I’d never imagined.

→ A new owner of a premature business that needed me in ways I’d never prepared for.

→ A premature version of myself, frantically pretending I knew what the hell I was doing in either role.

I look back now and realize I wasn’t just in a transition. I wasn’t experiencing normal new-mom overwhelm or typical entrepreneur anxiety.

Every identity I held: professional badass, competent mother, woman who had her s**t together, was cracking open all at once. And I had absolutely no idea who I was becoming in the aftermath.

Here’s What No One Tells You About the Bombardo:

It doesn’t always look like crisis.

Sometimes it looks like everything you wanted finally happening… and still knocking the wind completely out of you.

You get the promotion, the relationship, the house, the baby, the business launch you’ve been working toward for years. You should be celebrating. Instead, you’re walking around like a stunned ghost, wondering why success feels so much like drowning.

Because even when the changes are beautiful and chosen and long-awaited, they still dismantle the version of you that was holding everything together.

The old you knew how to navigate your old life. But this new life? With these new responsibilities and opportunities and expectations? She’s still figuring out which way is up.

So What Do You Actually Do When You’re in the Bombardo?

First: You breathe.

Not the Instagram-worthy deep breathing with essential oils and morning affirmations (though if that’s your thing, go for it). Just the basic, keep-oxygen-moving-through-your-body kind of breathing.

You don’t try to solve it all in one day. You don’t create a vision board. You don’t write a five-year strategic plan with color-coded action items. You don’t read seven self-help books and expect to emerge transformed by Tuesday…Unless you are me and you do these things on repeat until you realize that none of it really “helps” in the way you want it to.

But it makes it bearable. And sometimes, bearable is enough.

You name it. (Thank you, unnamed friend, for giving us the perfect word.)

You laugh about it when you can.

You cry in the shower when you need to.

You call a friend who’s already survived their own identity detonation and lived to tell about it.

You do the next small, manageable, kind thing.

And you stop, please, for the love of all that’s holy, stop expecting yourself to “bounce back” when you’ve just been blown apart. Bouncing implies you’re returning to your original shape.

But the Bombardo doesn’t work that way. You’re not bouncing back. You’re rebuilding. From scratch. While living in the construction zone.

If You’re in the Bombardo Right Now…

You’re not broken. You’re not behind. You’re not doing it wrong.

You’re becoming.

The dust will settle. (Not quickly, but it will.) The fog will lift. (In patches, not all at once.) And eventually, maybe while you’re standing in line at Target or folding laundry or sitting in traffic, you’ll catch a glimpse of the person you’re becoming on the other side of this beautiful disaster.

But today? Right now? You can sit in the mess. You can laugh and grieve and eat carbs and forget your passwords and wonder what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.

It’s okay.

You’re not failing at transition. You’re just doing it in real time, without a script, like the rest of us mortals.

Ever had a Bombardo moment? One of those seasons where everything exploded simultaneously and you weren’t sure which version of you would survive the blast?

I’d love to hear about it. Because here’s what I’ve learned: We don’t always get to choose when the old life ends, but we do get to decide how honest we’re willing to be in the messy middle.

And sometimes, that honesty is the only thing that keeps us sane while we’re figuring out who we’re becoming.

_____

Originally published on Substack