The Hidden Journal

There isn’t just one arrival.
No single moment when I’m finally whole.
Becoming isn’t a destination —
it’s a season that keeps circling back,
each time softer,
each time truer.

───

Some days it feels like growing.
Others, like shedding.
And maybe both are holy.

───

The season of becoming
doesn’t ask for control.
It asks for trust —
that what falls away
was never meant to stay,
and what remains
is enough to begin again.

───

It’s strange, this cycle.
How I can feel both tender and strong,
rooted and reaching,
breaking and blooming,
all at once.

───

But that’s the beauty of it —
becoming doesn’t need to be graceful.
It just needs to be honest.

───

And every time I think I’ve arrived,
I find another layer,
another voice,
another softness waiting to meet the light.

───

Maybe that’s the point —
I’m not here to be finished.
I’m here to keep unfolding.

───

— Desiree