The Art of Becoming

there’s a version of me i really miss.
soft. open. someone who let people in.
someone who didn’t always feel the need to protect everything.

he’s still in there somewhere.
i just don’t let him come out as much.
not because i don’t want to —
but because i don’t know how safe it is anymore.

life changed that.
hurt changed that.

i’m more grounded now. more clear.
but also… more closed.
i think that happens when you’ve survived things people don’t know about.

everyone has always famously said to me when things get tough — “you’ll figure it out. you always do.”
and i do.
but i’m tired of being the one who holds it all together.
the one who carries the weight and makes it look good. like i’m not constantly hurdling mountains... or trying at least.
no one really sees what it takes to be me. does anyone really see what it takes to be you?

i’ve been on my own since i was 18.
and for a long time, that never felt lonely.
but lately… it does.

choosing yourself, doing the work, not settling — it’s good.

it’s right.
but it’s also fucking isolating.
no one talks about that part.

i’ve been thinking about all the versions of me i’ve left behind.
some i chose to let go of.
others — i think they just disappeared along the way. 

I keep everything— all the letters of my past lovers, the plane tickets for those special trips, the concert tickets that held guarantee to the nights i’ll never forget. all the photographs from places and people who have passed through my life.

i have it all and i constantly look back and wonder who that boy was that has now grown into a man. who is that person now that i used to love so much, and use to love me too. i guess you can say i’m nostolgic. its in my blood

i’m doing the best i can. really.
but that doesn’t mean i don’t feel like i’m failing sometimes.
i miss the version of me who believed in love.
who thought everything would work out just because i wanted it badly enough.
i don’t feel like that anymore.

i want to be held.
not because i’m weak.
but because i’ve been strong for too long.

i miss being soft.
i miss being loved while being soft.
i don’t want to have to explain myself all the time.
i don’t want to perform my pain.
i just want someone to see me for me.

i still show up.
i still create.
i still become.

but i carry all of it.
every past version.
every quiet ache.
every part of me no one else has stayed long enough to understand.

that’s the weight of becoming.

and right now,

i’m carrying it with both hands.