Still Becoming

I saw patterns in the cracks,
truth in the tremble,
danger in the silence
that others called ordinary.

My mind became a magnifying glass—
searching for meaning
in receipts,
in pauses,
in the way someone said “literally”
too many times.

I was unraveling.
Not loudly.
Not publicly.
Just slowly—
like wallpaper peeling in a room no one visits.

I didn’t trust.
Not systems.
Not smiles.
Sometimes not even myself.

I asked too many questions.
Dug too deep.
Held too tightly to the idea
that if I could just understand,
I could breathe.

But healing isn’t clarity.
It’s softness.
It’s learning to let go
without giving up.

It’s realizing that
not every pattern is a prophecy,
not every silence is a threat,
not every mistake is a sentence.

I’m still becoming.
Still learning the language
of rest,
of trust,
of enough.

And maybe that’s the most honest thing I’ve ever done.