If I am being honest, most of my life has been wasted by me trying to arrive somewhere. A version of myself that finally feels transformed. Renewed. Rejuvenated. As if there is a finish line where everything finally clicks into place and I get to say: There. I’ve made it.
But recently, I have started to realize that the version of me I am waiting for may not actually exist. Not because I’m inadequate, but because “there” was never really the point.
Becoming isn’t an arrival. It is a journey – and a pretty imperfect one.
There are days when I feel complete, empowered, and self-assured. And then there are the days where I still feel behind, hesitant, and afraid of all the versions of myself I am trying to balance: the professional me, the creative me, the friend, the daughter, the visionary, the realist. It’s a spinning cast of identities that sometimes fits like my favorite pair of jeans, and other times feels like I am trying on clothes that don’t belong to me.
I used to believe that growing was about getting stronger, more creative, more organized. But more often, I’m discovering that real growth is softer than that. It’s not about verifying myself – it’s about finding peace with the parts of me I don’t fully understand yet.
It is learning to sit in the in-between crevices. The mornings when my coffee tastes abnormally good. The silent victories that no one sees. The hard conversations where I finally communicate honestly. The tiny act of giving myself grace when I fall short.
Becoming me means letting go of the pressure to constantly transform into something newer, better, shinier. It means letting myself exist – complicated and exposed.
Maybe the real becoming is about uncovering space for softness.
Softness in my schedule.
Softness in my intentions.
The truth is, I don’t know exactly who I am becoming. But for the first time, I am okay with that.
Becoming isn’t an objective to complete. It’s simply the quiet, continuing permission to keep growing.
Hey Kaleigh! 
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