Coming home to myself!

I believe I am not broken—
but I am often spoken to
like something that needs to be fixed,
inadequate as I am.

As if I am a problem to solve,
a surface to smooth,
a self to improve
into something easily met,
becoming worthy
of being held.

Somewhere along life’s ways,
becoming
started to sound like correcting.

Was I ever meant
to be reduced
to a before
and an after?

Or simply
meant to exist
in the in-between—
not incomplete,
not lacking,
not waiting to arrive—
just here.

And maybe that is what feels
sometimes so unfamiliar—
being unleashed,
unpolished,
unresolved,
yet still okay to be met,
still worthy
of being held.

—

I believe I am not powerless—
yet I am taught to wait
for permission to rise.

To wait for clarity,
for timing,
for someone to arrive—
to rescue me,
to release me,
and to show me the way lies
somewhere on a retail shelf
or in the hands of someone else.

But power does not always announce itself loudly.

Sometimes
it lives quietly
in the moment I choose
not to abandon myself.

Sometimes
it looks like staying,
sometimes
it shows the way
back to myself.

—

I believe I am whole—
yet this idea of “enough”
keeps shifting.

A horizon
that moves further
each time I come closer.

There is always
another version of me
waiting somewhere ahead—
and I keep reaching
as if I am not already here.

But wholeness
was never something to build.

It rests within—
something I return to
in quiet moments.

And still,
I find myself searching
for what was never missing.

—

I believe I am Love—
yet I find myself
reshaping,
softening,
editing
the edges of who I am.

As if love were something
to earn
through becoming
more pleasing.

But love was never meant
to be performed.

And in that kind of love,
I do not belong.

Yet I stay,
again and again—
leaving parts of myself behind
just to be chosen.

And each time I do,
I move a little further away
from the love
I already am.

—

I believe I am… simply me—
and somehow
that feels like
the hardest truth to hold.

Not incomplete,
not lacking,
not waiting to arrive—
just here.

And maybe that is what feels
sometimes so unfamiliar—

just
alive in my contradictions,
stretching in my becoming,
soft in places
I once tried to harden.

—

Now, I believe I am able
to walk through the depth of darkness—
not because I have conquered it,
not because I have escaped it,
but because
I no longer believe
it can take me away from myself.

I believe I am the light—
not the kind that demands to be seen,
but the kind that stays,
the kind that shares,
even when I sense the fear.

The kind that flickers,
but does not disappear.

And maybe
this is all self-discovery ever was—
not becoming something new,
but softening
into a quiet knowing,
into a curious awakening
that I have been
walking with myself
all along—
coming home to myself,
knowing
this is where
I have always belonged.