On Identity and Becoming: The Woman You Are Still Meeting

There is a particular kind of discomfort that comes from realizing you no longer know who you are.

Not because something catastrophic has happened. Not because you have lost something tangible. But because somewhere between the woman you were and the woman you are becoming, the old story stopped fitting — and the new one hasn't fully arrived yet.

I've been in that space. I suspect many of you have too.

The Myth of the Fixed Self

We are taught, early and often, that identity is something you discover and then settle into. That there is a "real you" somewhere underneath all the noise — stable, consistent, waiting to be uncovered. That once you find yourself, the work is done.

But I don't think that's true.

I think identity is more like a river than a rock. Always moving. Shaped by what it flows through. Carrying things — memories, wounds, joys, revelations — that change its current.

The woman you are today has been shaped by every season you have lived through. And the woman you are becoming is being shaped right now — by the choices you are making, the truths you are examining, the patterns you are willing to question.

What "Becoming" Actually Requires

Becoming requires honesty. Not the kind that announces itself loudly, but the quiet, steady kind — the willingness to sit with yourself in the dark and ask: Who am I, really, when I'm not performing?

Becoming requires patience. There is no shortcut through the in-between. The space between who you were and who you are growing into is not a problem to solve. It is a season to move through with as much gentleness as you can manage.

Becoming requires letting go. Of old identities that no longer serve. Of relationships that were built on a version of you that has evolved. Of the comfort of being known in a particular way, even when that knowing has become a cage.

A Practice, Not a Destination

I want to offer you this: becoming is not a crisis. It is a practice.

The women I most admire are not the ones who have "arrived." They are the ones who have learned to be honest about where they actually are. Who hold their identity with a little looseness — with curiosity rather than fear.

They are women who ask questions. Who sit with discomfort without immediately trying to resolve it. Who allow themselves to not know, for long enough to actually learn something true.

That is the work. And it is lifelong.

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If this resonated with you, I'd love to hear what's coming up. You can always reach me directly, or explore these themes further in GLO Notes — my weekly space for reflections just like this.