FRAGMENTS OF ME

Becoming

I used to chase versions of myself

that no longer fit.

The girl who said yes to everything.

The one who kept shrinking

so no one else would feel small.

The one who called chaos “love”

and silence “peace.”

I stayed loyal to versions of myself built for survival, not for joy.

Versions that learned early how to adapt, how to soften, how to endure.

Versions that were praised for being easy, flexible, and understandable

even when it meant abandoning myself.

But I’m not her anymore.

And that’s okay.

Becoming isn’t gentle.

It’s loud and quiet,

painful and freeing.

It’s standing in front of the mirror

and realising you have outgrown your reflection.

It’s walking away from familiar rooms

that no longer feel like home.

Becoming doesn’t ask politely.

It interrupts.

It disrupts.

It pulls you forward before you feel ready.

I have lost people who never thought

I’d actually choose myself.

But I did.

And I keep doing it

even when it hurts.

Even when it costs me comfort.

Even when it leaves me alone with feelings I used to avoid.

Becoming means learning new languages:

boundaries, solitude, and patience.

It’s realising you don’t have to perform

to be worthy of love.

That soft doesn’t mean weak.

That peace can be loud in its own way.

I used to beg for validation,

wait for someone to tell me I was enough.

Now, I write my own approval letters.

Now, I clap for myself first.

And sometimes, that’s the hardest applause to believe.

Becoming is weird.

It’s losing versions of you

you thought would last forever.

But it’s also remembering the parts

that the world tried to silence,

the laughter, the curiosity, the hope.

And when people say,

“You have changed,”

I smile.

Because I have.

Because healing is supposed to rearrange you.

Becoming isn’t about finding someone new.

It’s about returning

to the self I buried

under expectations and noise.

And finally saying,

“Welcome back.”

Becoming didn’t feel powerful.

It felt confusing, lonely, and painfully slow.

There was a season when everything in me was shifting,

But nothing around me seemed to notice.

No applause.

No clear milestones.

Just quiet internal earthquakes.

Becoming felt like standing between who I was

and who I could no longer be.

I knew I was outgrowing certain versions of myself,

But I didn’t yet know what I was growing into.

That uncertainty scared me.

It made me question whether I was changing for the better

or simply losing parts of myself along the way.

No one really talks about this part, the in-between.

The space where you have outgrown who you were

but haven’t met who you are becoming yet.

Where everything familiar feels too tight,

but the future still feels uncertain and far away.

I was changing in ways I couldn’t explain.

The things I once tolerated began to feel heavy.

The places I stayed out of comfort started to drain me.

And yet, leaving felt just as frightening as staying.

Some days, I wondered if I was growing

or just losing myself.

If this discomfort meant transformation,

Or failure to wear a different name.

There were moments I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to hold on.

Moments I didn’t feel brave at all.

Fear had already taught me how to doubt who I was becoming.

Nothing made sense anymore.

I felt like I was standing still

while everything else moved forward.

I tried to stop feeling this way.

I tried to push through it.

I tried to convince myself I was fine.

But becoming doesn’t ask for control.

It asks for honesty.

And the truth was, it felt heavy.

It felt like I was losing the person I thought I was.

Like parts of me were falling away

before I understood what was meant to remain.

There was grief in becoming, too.

Grief for the version of me who didn’t know better.

For the girl who stayed because she thought endurance was strength.

For the dreams I postponed, thinking they would wait patiently for me.

Becoming asked me to be honest in ways I wasn’t ready for.

It asked me to admit that some of my suffering came from staying too long.

That's not everything I lost that was stolen

some things I had to release.

And letting go didn’t make me weak.

It made me awake.

I started to realise that growth isn’t loud.

It doesn’t announce itself with certainty.

Sometimes it shows up as restlessness.

As discomfort.

As the quiet refusal to continue living a life that no longer feels true.

I wasn’t becoming fearless.

I was becoming aware.

Aware that staying the same

was costing me more

than change ever could.