The Middle of Becoming

Nobody ever tells you how long the middle is. Or how messy. Or how confusing it is to love people so deeply while barely knowing how to love yourself on Tuesdays. Everyone glamorizes the glow-up — the “before,” with its sad lighting and blurry photos, and the “after,” with a blazer, a LinkedIn update, and captioned confidence. But the middle? The middle is that awkward, quiet space where you’re doing everything you can and still feel like you’re not doing enough. And I think I’ve been in the middle for a while now. Not the beginning, where everything is terrifying but thrilling. Not the end, where things finally click into place. But somewhere in between. Where I wake up some days feeling like I’m building something beautiful, and other days, I just want to disappear for a bit. Or scream. Or both.

This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you that I’m figuring it out — that there’s a system or a secret or a checklist. But the truth? I don’t have a map. I have a Pinterest mood board. I have friends who send “did you eat today?” texts at 3 p.m. I have dreams that don’t fit into one career lane. I have messy Google Docs titled things like “final_final_actuallyFINAL.” I have half-finished notebooks filled with love, rage, quotes, and to-do lists I keep rewriting instead of completing. And yet, I also have proof that I’m moving. Because when I look back — at the girl who never said how she was feeling, who thought being loved meant being agreeable, who believed her worth was tied to report cards and people-pleasing — I don’t recognize her anymore. I see who I used to be. And that makes me hopeful.

The middle is where you start calling yourself a writer, even if you only write in the Notes app at 1 a.m. It’s where you unlearn timelines that were never yours to begin with. It’s where you lose people — or have to let them go — and in doing so, find the version of yourself they never took the time to meet. The middle is where you realize that growth isn’t always beautiful. Sometimes it looks like three days of sleeping too much. Sometimes it looks like rage. Sometimes it’s just finally sitting with yourself and forgiving her for being so hard to love — even by you.

I used to think “becoming” would feel grand — like fireworks, a montage, a movie score playing in the background while my life changed. But most days, becoming feels like brushing your teeth despite the brain fog. Like sending a risky text even when your voice shakes. Like buying yourself the damn flowers. Like applying for the job even when imposter syndrome begs you not to. Like choosing yourself — quietly, imperfectly, again and again and again.

So if you’re here too, floating somewhere in the soup of “almosts” and “not yets,” unsure whether you’re blooming or breaking — I see you. You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re just in the middle of becoming.

And damn… what a powerful place to be.