There was a time when I thought growth meant becoming a better version of me.
Now I wonder if growth has more to do with becoming more me.
It’s a subtle difference, but it changes everything.
For years, I spent a lot of energy and time trying to understand why I felt held back. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It wasn’t one dramatic event or one obvious obstacle. It was more like carrying an invisible backpack that had become so familiar I forgot I was wearing it.
The funny thing about invisible baggage is that it eventually starts to feel like part of who we are.
We stop asking whether we’re carrying it because we’ve forgotten there was ever another way to walk.
Lately, through writing, I’ve begun to notice some of those hidden weights. Not all at once. One at a time.
Some were old insecurities.
Some were assumptions I’d accepted without ever questioning them.
Some were beliefs about myself that had settled in over the years until they felt like facts.
Remarkably, it wasn’t discovering that I had been wrong about everything.
It was discovering that I wasn’t asking the right questions.
Instead of asking, Why am I like this? I’ve started asking, Where did I learn to believe this?
Instead of asking, What’s wrong with me? I’ve started asking, Is this really mine to carry?
Those questions don’t produce immediate answers, but they have a way of clearing away a few musty cobwebs.
I’ve also noticed something else.
For a long time, I thought making a list meant I was afraid I would forget something.
Now I think a list is something entirely different.
A list is a reminder of what matters.
It isn’t meant to pressure me.
It’s there to help me be more intentional.
There was a time in my life when I spent most of my energy responding to whatever landed on my lap. Problems, responsibilities, interruptions—they all deserved attention, and many of them genuinely needed it.
But somewhere along the way I forgot that reacting to life isn’t the same as creating one.
There’s a power in deciding how I want to spend the day before the day decides for me.
That doesn’t mean every plan works out.
It simply means I’m choosing my direction instead of drifting wherever the current takes me.
I’ve also begun to notice something encouraging.
Confidence doesn’t arrive all at once.
It arrives when I do something I once believed I couldn’t do.
Each time I speak up instead of staying quiet.
Each time I express a thought a little more clearly.
Each time I give myself permission to trust what I already know.
Maybe that’s why my life feels different.
I’m not trying to become someone I’m not.
I’m learning to become more confidently me.
Without fully realizing it, I think I’ve been practicing something I recently heard in a story about the Buddha.
The monk said that a hand is just as clenched when it’s trying to push something away as it is when it’s desperately holding on.
As I reflected on that, I realized I wasn’t just holding on to old beliefs about myself. I was also pushing away the possibility that I was more capable than I had allowed myself to believe.
I didn’t set out to let go.
I set out to understand.
And somewhere along the way, my grip began to loosen.
So, for now, I’ll keep writing.
I’ll keep asking myself better questions.
I’ll be more intentional with my time and my relationships, while I allow life to unfold.
And maybe that’s enough.
I don’t know where this path is going to lead me.
I have no idea what my life will look like a year from now if I continue choosing curiosity over certainty, intention over reaction, and presence over perfection.
But I want to know.
I want to discover who I’ll become if I continue showing up in this way.
That’s worth exploring.