Becoming at My Own Pace

There was a time when I measured my healing against everyone else’s.

How fast they forgave, how quickly they moved on,

how easily they seemed to bloom while I was still untangling roots.

But healing, I’ve learned, has no finish line.

It’s not a race or a checklist —

it’s a slow unfolding,

a quiet becoming.

There are days I feel light and whole,

and days I return to old wounds with shaky hands.

Both count.

Both matter.

Becoming at my own pace means letting the seasons within me change without shame.

It means trusting that I can still move forward even when it doesn’t look like progress.

It means honoring the rhythm of my own heart —

steady, slow, sacred.

I no longer rush the process.

I no longer apologize for the time it takes.

Because every soft step, every small beginning,

is still a part of becoming.