I imagined becoming as a decisive moment—a clean passage from one state into another. But experience refuses to confirm this fantasy.
Becoming is uneven. It advances, then retreats, then pauses long enough to make one doubt the direction altogether. I often feel as though I am circling the same questions, learning the same lessons with only slight variations.
At first, this repetition frustrated me. Now I suspect it is the method.
Life does not instruct us in grand lectures, but in patient revisions. Each return deepens the lesson if we are attentive enough to notice.
I do not feel myself arriving anywhere just yet. But I feel myself being prepared to carry thought without arrogance, responsibility without haste, and memory without bitterness.
If this is what becoming looks like, then perhaps arriving is less important than remaining capable of the journey.