There are moments when I catch my reflection and barely recognize the person staring back at me. The journey of self-discovery isn’t linear—it’s a winding path marked by profound realizations and quiet introspection.

For years, I constructed versions of myself built on fear, desperately holding everything together, trying to appear strong even as I was fragmenting inside.  Every choice I made became a survival mechanism—a protective layer shaped by past traumas and unspoken wounds. I built walls, wore masks, and silenced parts of myself that felt too vulnerable. But now I’m learning that true strength isn’t about maintaining a perfect exterior—it’s about finding the courage to dismantle those defenses.

I’m not the person I was, and I’m not yet the person I’m becoming. This in-between space is uncomfortable, even painful, but it’s also sacred. Here, I’m learning to be gentle with myself. Healing isn’t about erasing the past; it’s about understanding, integrating, and choosing a different path forward.

My faith isn’t blind optimism—it’s a quiet, persistent belief in my ability to grow. The version of myself I’m nurturing is emerging not despite my experiences but because of them. Each scar and each moment of struggle has taught me resilience, compassion, and radical self-acceptance.

“The things I can’t change are changing me.” These lyrics echo in my mind, urging me to reflect on who I am and my role in this moment.

There’s no turning back the clock. Yet I often find myself looking back, caught in moments when my reflection feels unfamiliar.

“Who the hell is that?” I ask.

I’m not who I was, but I’m also not yet who I want to be. Somewhere in between, I’m navigating choices born from fear and the need to hold everything together when it felt like it was all slipping through my hands.

And yet, this work—this messy, imperfect process of becoming—is teaching me to find beauty in the cracks, to trust the pieces as they fall and rearrange, and to believe that even unfinished, I am whole.