I Am Still Becoming

I Am Still Becoming

They told me growth was beautiful.

But they forgot to mention it would also be lonely,

• and painful,

and slow.

I always thought becoming someone meant achieving something big.

Like climbing a mountain and standing at the top, arms raised, smiling for the world.

But becoming—real becoming—

isn’t loud.

It’s not Instagrammable.

It’s not a highlight reel.

Sometimes, it looks like this:

Sitting on your bedroom floor,

tears dried into your sweater,

wondering why you still feel behind.

I used to think I was weak for doubting myself.

Every time I took a step forward and then spiraled back into fear, I told myself:

“See? You’re not cut out for this.”

But now I understand…

Doubt is not the enemy of progress.

Doubt means you're thinking.

It means you're aware.

It means you care enough to question.

And caring is brave.

I remember the day I hit my lowest.

I had been working on a project for months — writing, refining, reworking.

I poured every ounce of myself into it.

And when I finally shared it with the world, it was met with silence.

No applause. No validation. Not even criticism.

Just… nothing.

It felt like screaming into a canyon and hearing nothing back but your own echo.

I started to wonder if my words had value.

If I had value.

If anything I did would ever matter.

And then… a message.

“Your poem made me cry. Thank you for writing what I couldn’t say.”

Just one message.

But it shattered the silence.

I am still becoming.

I am not there yet—wherever "there" is.

But I have stopped measuring my worth by how quickly I arrive.

Because sometimes, slow growth is sacred.

The kind that doesn’t bloom overnight.

The kind that roots deep, unseen, in the dark.

We talk a lot about becoming something great.

But maybe we should talk more about becoming gentle.

Becoming kind to yourself when you're not productive.

Becoming soft with your pain.

Becoming patient with your path.

Poem:

Some days I bloom.

Some days I wilt.

But every day, I stretch a little closer to the light.

I am not a finished painting.

I am brushstrokes in progress.

A mess of color and contrast.

And still — somehow — beautiful.

I used to look at others and compare their highlight reels to my behind-the-scenes.

He got the job.

She got the publishing deal.

They have it all figured out.

But then I realized…

Comparison kills curiosity.

And curiosity is where creativity is born.

The moment I stopped asking, “Why am I not them?”

and started asking, “What can I learn from this?” —

everything shifted.

I am still becoming.

And I hope I always will be.

Because there’s something deeply human about unfinished stories.

They leave room for grace.

For change.

For trying again.

Poem:

Let them laugh at your soft voice.

At your slow pace.

At your quiet dreams.

The seed doesn’t ask permission to grow.

It breaks through dirt in silence.

If you're reading this and you feel like giving up — I get it.

I’ve been there.

Staring at your laptop screen,

scrolling through “success stories,”

wondering why your path feels so different.

But please hear this:

You are not behind.

You are not failing.

You are still becoming.

And every single step you take — no matter how small —

is worthy of celebration.

Not all growth is visible.

Sometimes, it happens in how you choose to get up again.

In the way you speak to yourself after a setback.

In how you continue to believe — even when it would be easier not to.

Poem:

The world told me to be fast.

To be fierce.

To be flawless.

But I chose to be real.

To be raw.

To be becoming.

And I think that matters more.

We don’t talk enough about the middle.

The in-between.

The chapters that aren’t shiny or dramatic.

Just quiet progress.

But those are the parts that shape you.

So if today was hard… that’s okay.

You're still in the story.

You're still in the fight.

You’re still becoming.

And that is enough