Becoming, On Purpose

I’m not who I was a year ago.
And honestly, that’s the whole point.

For a long time, I thought growth would be obvious. Loud. Noticeable. I believed healing would come with clarity—an unmistakable moment where everything finally made sense and the weight lifted all at once. I thought there would be a finish line. A version of me that felt “done.”

That’s not how it happened.

It happened in the quiet moments no one claps for.
In the pauses.
In the choices I made when no one was watching.

It looked like learning to stop explaining myself to people who had already decided who I was. It looked like choosing silence instead of defending my truth. Like realizing that being understood isn’t something you can force—and peace doesn’t come from convincing others.

I’m not the version of me who begged to be seen anymore.
Not the version who stayed too long out of hope or obligation.
Not the version who confused endurance with love or self-sacrifice with loyalty.

That version kept me alive.
But she was exhausted.

This version of me still feels deeply—but she’s steadier.
She still carries grief—but it no longer defines every step.
She still has days where everything feels heavy—but she no longer believes those days mean she’s failing.

I’ve learned that healing doesn’t erase what hurt you.
It teaches you how to carry it differently.

There are things I tolerate less now—not because I’m cold or bitter, but because I finally understand what it costs me to stay in places that don’t feel safe. I don’t bend myself into shapes that feel foreign anymore. I don’t ignore my body when it tells me something isn’t right.

I’ve outgrown some people.
I’ve outgrown some dynamics.
I’ve even outgrown versions of myself that once protected me—but now hold me back.

And letting go of those versions hasn’t been easy.

There’s grief in becoming someone new.
Grief for who you were.
Grief for what you hoped would change.
Grief for the love you gave before you knew how to give it to yourself.

But there’s also freedom.

I no longer measure my worth by how much I can endure.
I no longer believe love requires me to prove my value.
I no longer mistake chaos for connection or familiarity for safety.

I’m softer now—not because I’m fragile, but because I no longer need armor for everything.
I’m stronger—not because I carry more, but because I’ve learned what to put down.

And yes, this version of me might feel unfamiliar to people who benefited from my silence or my self-doubt. She may feel distant to those who preferred the version of me that stayed quiet, accommodating, and endlessly available.

That’s okay.

I didn’t change to be accepted.
I didn’t change to be palatable.
I changed because staying the same was slowly costing me myself.

So if you don’t recognize me anymore, that doesn’t mean I’m lost.
It means I found something worth protecting.

I’m not who I was when I was just surviving.
I’m becoming who I am when I’m finally allowed to live.

And that’s the point.