When my car got repossessed after my divorce, I wasn't just losing transportation. I was losing another piece of the identity I'd built over four decades. Successful professional. Reliable father. Man who had his life together.

Standing at that empty parking spot, I had to ask myself a question I hadn't seriously considered since I was a kid: Who am I?

I don't mean what do I do for a living, or what role do I play in other people's lives. I mean who am I at my core, when all the titles and roles that divorce just took away are gone?

That question sent me on a journey that probably saved my life.

The Identity Crisis Nobody Warns You About

Here's what they don't tell you about divorce after 40: You're not just losing a relationship. You're losing the entire framework you used to define yourself.

Think about it. For decades, you've been husband, provider, family man, partner in a shared life. Your daily routines, your financial decisions, your social circles, even the way you introduce yourself at parties—all of it was built around that identity.

Then divorce happens, and suddenly those roles are gone. You're not the husband anymore. You're seeing your kids part-time instead of full-time. The couples you used to hang out with have stopped calling. The house you worked so hard for belongs to someone else now.

So who are you?

Most of us can't answer that question. We've been so busy being what everyone needed us to be that we forgot who we were before all the responsibilities piled on.

I've worked with hundreds of divorced men over 40, and this identity crisis shows up in predictable ways. Some guys throw themselves into work, trying to rebuild their identity as "successful businessman." Others jump into the dating pool too fast, desperate to become "desirable man" again. Some retreat into isolation, becoming "the guy who got screwed over."

But here's the truth: None of those identities will hold you up when the next challenge comes. Because they're all built on external validation instead of internal knowing.

The Power of Knowing Your Name

When I was at my lowest point—living in a homeless shelter, separated from my daughters, wondering how a man with a master's degree ended up sleeping in a room full of bed bugs—I remembered something my grandfather taught me when I was a boy.

Weston Benjamin Berlack used to sit me on his knee and tell me stories about our family. He told me about his grandfather, a Prussian Jewish immigrant who came to America with nothing but determination. He shared stories of growing up in Harlem in the 1920s, about not being able to cross certain streets because of the color of his skin.

And he taught me what our name meant.

"Steven" means crowned one. "Bernard" means strong, brave bear. "Berlack" was shortened at Ellis Island from a name the immigration officer couldn't pronounce, but it represented a man brave enough to cross an ocean for a better life.

Grandpa was telling me who I am. He was connecting me to a legacy of people who faced impossible odds and found ways to overcome them.

When I remembered those stories during my darkest hours, something shifted. I stopped seeing myself as a divorced man who lost everything. I started seeing myself as the latest chapter in a story of people who refuse to stay down.

That realization changed everything.

What Your Name Carries

A study published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology by researchers Brett Pelham, Matthew Mirenberg, and John Jones found that people are drawn to careers, places, and even partners that reflect their names—a phenomenon they called "implicit egotism." Your name shapes how you see yourself more than you realize.

But most divorced men I meet can't tell me what their name means. They've carried it their whole lives, but they've never explored the history or spirit behind it.

That's a problem. Because when divorce strips away all your external identities, your name is one of the few constants that remains. Understanding what it represents gives you an anchor when everything else is shifting.

Here's what I mean: My name tells me I come from royalty (crowned one), I have the strength to face challenges (strong bear), and I'm part of a lineage that crossed oceans and overcame obstacles (immigrant heritage). When I'm standing in line at a bus stop after my car got repossessed, that knowledge matters. When I'm sleeping in a shelter, that history sustains me.

It reminds me that my current circumstances don't define my identity. My lineage does. My character does. The spirit I carry in my name does.

The Archaeological Dig You Need to Do

Self-awareness begins with an archaeological dig into your own history. You need to excavate the man you were before the world taught you who you should be. Before the marriage that just ended. Before the career that defined you. Before the responsibilities that shaped you.

Start with your name. What does it mean? Where did it come from? What's the story of the people who carried it before you?

If you don't know, find out. Call family members. Do online research. Dig into your ancestry through sites like Ancestry.com or FamilySearch.org. This is identity recovery.

You're looking for evidence of the strength, resilience, and purpose that runs in your bloodline. You're connecting to a legacy that existed before your divorce and will continue long after.

I've seen men cry when they discover what their name means. One guy I worked with learned his father's name meant "warrior." That discovery gave him the courage to stand up to an ex-wife who was using the kids as weapons. Another man discovered his grandmother survived the Holocaust—suddenly, his divorce didn't seem like an insurmountable obstacle anymore.

Your name carries power. You just have to uncover it.

Beyond Your Name: The Stories That Made You

But don't stop at etymology. Dig deeper into the stories your family passed down. The struggles they overcame. The values they held. The character traits that helped them survive and thrive.

My grandfather showed me what strength looked like in action. He told me about serving in a segregated army during World War II. About his 29 years as a private detective in New York. About meeting my grandmother at a bus stop on a rainy day.

One story stands out. When I was very young, I tried to steal a bag of potato chips from the neighborhood store. My mother whipped me, but I don't remember that. What I remember is Grandpa sitting me down on his bed in a very low tone: "Son, it starts with this." He placed a pencil on the nightstand. "It then becomes this." He placed a book next to it. "Then it will be this." He moved a large lamp beside the book.

Then he said something I never forgot: "We've always been on the right side of the law. Berlacks don't do that."

Grandpa was telling me who I am. Who we are. What our name represents.

Those stories gave me the self-awareness and confidence to withstand all the troubles of my life. When divorce threatened to break me, I remembered I come from a line of people who don't break. When I lost my home and car, I remembered my great-great-grandfather came to America with even less and still built a life.

The Man You've Always Been

Divorce doesn't change who you are at your core. It just strips away the roles that were hiding your true self.

Who have you always been beneath all the expectations and responsibilities?

Your name carries the answer. Your family history holds the proof. Your heritage provides the strength.

You are the latest chapter in a story of survival, resilience, and purpose that stretches back generations. That story didn't start with your marriage, and it doesn't end with your divorce.

When I stood at that empty parking spot where my car used to be, I could have let that moment define me as a failure. Instead, I remembered the Prussian immigrant who crossed an ocean. The Harlem kid who couldn't cross certain streets but still built a life. The private detective who served his country despite segregation.

I remembered I come from people who rise above their circumstances. Who face impossible odds and find ways to overcome them.

Berlacks don't stay down. And neither do you, once you remember who you really are.