I used to think I had to arrive -
to be perfect, polished,
a final draft of someone
I was still learning to love.
But growth is quieter than I imagined.
It lives in mornings I choose to rise,
even when my soul begs for softness.
It lives in the silence I no longer fill
with apologies.
I am made of pauses
and persistence,
grief stitched into grit,
tenderness taught through trial.
I carry the echo of ancestors
who crossed oceans
so I could carry their names
in rooms they never dreamed of.
And no, I don't always feel strong -
but I show up anyway.
Because becoming
isn't about knowing the way -
it's about walking it
with open hands
and an open heart.
I am still becoming
And that is enough.
