There’s a point in your growth where everything starts to feel quiet—but not peaceful. More like… paused. Like God is asking you to walk even when the lights are dim. Like you’re supposed to keep showing up to your life, even while your soul still feels under construction. This is the becoming no one prepares you for.
You’re not who you used to be. You know that much. But you’re also not entirely sure who you’re becoming either. That liminal space in between—the in-progress version of yourself—is tender, uncomfortable, sacred. It’s not linear. It’s not aesthetic. And it’s definitely not always easy.
Becoming isn’t a checklist. It’s not a glow-up. It’s not a reel with soft music and candles and journals. It’s crying in your car. It’s walking away from people you love. It’s praying without words. It’s the version of you that wakes up and chooses to keep going even when nothing feels certain. It’s the version that shows up to your own life with your hands shaking and heart half-hopeful, whispering, “I’m trying.”
We talk a lot about confidence and clarity, like you’re supposed to always know where you’re going. But faith doesn’t require clarity. It just asks for sincerity. It asks you to be still long enough to hear yourself. To believe that even when it feels like nothing’s happening on the outside, something sacred is shifting within. It’s not about knowing the next step. It’s about trusting that you’re not walking it alone.
You don’t have to be sure to be showing up. You don’t need to have it all together to be growing. And honestly, maybe this is the holiest part—learning to trust the slow process. Learning to honor the version of yourself that’s not finished, but still showing up.
There’s so much pressure to define yourself. To hold something up and say “This is who I am now.” But what if your identity is still unfolding? What if the gray space isn’t a mistake, but part of the masterpiece? Some days you’ll feel clear. Some days you won’t. And the miracle is, even in the fog, you are still becoming. Still worthy. Still enough.
And somewhere along the way, you learn to hold joy and sadness at the same time. You learn that you can feel low and still choose life. You can be sad and still say, “I’m going to water something today.” That’s strength, too.
Strength isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s simply deciding to keep going. Sometimes it’s saying, “Yeah, I’m hurting… but I still believe something beautiful is growing in me.” You start planting seeds even when the ground feels dry. You keep showing up to water them, even when your own cup feels empty. And somehow, little by little, things begin to bloom again.
That’s faith. That’s becoming. Not waiting until everything is better, but choosing to grow something good right here, right now, in the middle of it all.
So if you’re asking, “God, is this me becoming?”
Maybe it is.
Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s slow. Even if you’re scared.
You’re still here.
You’re still reaching toward the light.
And that counts for something.
