I am still Becoming

 It’s been nearly two years since I started this little corner of the internet — a space that began as a whisper, a dare, and maybe a bit of therapy. I never imagined how far it would take me, or how much I would grow between those early hesitant posts and the woman I am today. This isn’t just a look back. It’s a moment to stand still, breathe, and say… I’m still becoming.

I Am Still Becoming

In 2023 someone told me, “You should write a blog.”

I laughed. What on earth would I write about?

But I started anyway — slowly, tentatively, with long pauses between posts.

Those pauses became shorter, and before I knew it, there were more than ninety stories behind me. Ninety pieces of my heart.

I never had a niche — not in writing, not in life. I simply wrote to find my way, to heal, to breathe through the ache of it all.

And truthfully? I haven’t accomplished any of those perfectly.

But I’ve learned.

Oh, how I’ve learned.

I’ve become stronger — tougher where I once broke easily.

I trust men less (and that’s probably wisdom, not bitterness).

Yet I still believe in love — hell, yes, I do.

Only now, I’ve raised the price of admission. I’ve lifted the bar higher.

I am no longer desperate, nor foolish.

Yes, I want someone to love me completely — but not the man under the tree, not the cactus tree.

I’ve traveled, I’ve camped. Neither was easy, but both were worthy.

I took my mom with me — what an adventure that was — filled with love, laughter, and the occasional panic when the wind threatened to blow our tent away.

I met people along the way — some beautiful, some forgettable.

I got hurt too, but never so deeply that I wouldn’t try again.

Each scar became a signpost: look closer, slower, don’t ignore the red flags.

Now I stand with three months left of my planned journey.

I’m scared — and excited — because this time, it’s just me.

No companion, no shared tent, no one to fill the silence.

Just me, my thoughts, and the open road.

And honestly… that terrifies me.

But it also thrills me.

Because I’ve discovered things about myself:

That I’m utterly in love with the sea — its moods, its music, its honesty.

That I love writing (who knew?).

That I can say no without guilt now — no, thank you — to new faces that don’t meet the standard I’ve set for myself.

I’ve learned that we must never stop dreaming.

That we need far less than we think — less clutter, fewer clothes, fewer shoulds.

That most people don’t really care, or notice, or listen.

I used to send my posts to those closest to me, hoping they’d read them.

They rarely did.

Now I write for myself.

I care for myself.

I walk alone on the beach, music in my ears, ice cream in hand, and peace in my heart.

Because I am enough.

I am worthy.

I am loved.

I am happiness.

I am grateful.

I am — everything and anything my heart desires.

So no — my healing journey didn’t go as planned.

But I’m not done yet.

I’ll keep fighting — mostly against my own fears —

and I will find myself,

love myself,

and keep writing,

even without a niche.

Because sometimes, the story is the search.

To those who’ve read my words, whether from the start or just recently stumbled upon them — thank you. You’ve been part of something sacred: my becoming. Your silent presence, your reading eyes, your unseen nods — they’ve mattered. I may travel mostly alone, but I’ve never truly walked without company. Here’s to the road still ahead, the lessons still waiting, and the stories not yet written.