The Middle Of Becoming

I am standing

between what I was

and what I will be.

Not broken—

but bending.

Not lost—

but not home yet either.

Everyone talks about endings.

Everyone celebrates beginnings.

But nobody tells you how heavy

the middle can feel.

This place where the road is longer

than the breath in your chest,

and the silence is louder

than the promises you repeat

just to keep moving.

I am not standing still—

but I am not running anymore either.

I am walking,

mid-step,

learning to carry the pause

like it was meant for me.

See, the middle

isn’t failure.

It’s the workshop.

It’s the place where fear

meets the hammer of hope,

and sparks start to fly.

I used to think cracks meant collapse.

Now I see them as invitations.

Every fracture in my life

is a window for light.

Every silence I’ve held

is an earthquake

that hasn’t finished shaking the ground.

I am not invisible.

I am the whisper that lingers

after the shouting stops.

I am the shadow that moves

even when the sun forgets to rise.

I am proof

that the middle is not the waiting room—

the middle is the making room.

So don’t rush me.

Don’t pity me.

Don’t try to finish my sentence

before I’ve learned to say it myself.

I am not half of anything.

I am the whole of becoming.

And when I arrive—

if I arrive—

you’ll understand

why the silence had to shake,

why the crack had to split,

why the middle had to hold me

before I could hold myself.