It didn’t happen all at once.

Becoming is slow—

a bruise that deepens,

a root that splits the ground

before it ever shows its face.

I shed skins

that were stitched onto me—

names, labels,

expectations like heavy coats

I was never meant to wear.

I broke.

I healed.

I broke again.

And each time,

I found pieces of myself

in the rubble—

shards I thought I’d lost,

gems I never knew were mine.

This becoming

is not pretty.

It’s raw.

It’s hands in the dirt,

teeth clenched,

eyes wide open

even when it stings.

I am shaped

by the things that tried to crush me,

carved by grief,

painted by joy,

held together

by nothing but will.

And now—

I don’t shrink.

I don’t soften my edges

for comfort.

This is my becoming:

wild,

flawed,

whole.

A work in progress—

and a masterpiece

all the same.