Writers 
I am not the person I was last winter,
not the one who flinched at every closing door,
not the one who mistook silence for a splinter,
not the one unsure of what she was for.
I am not yet the person I hope to be,
not the one with all the answers memorized,
not the one who's fully learned to simply be,
not the one who's stopped being surprised.
I live somewhere between the was and the not-yet,
in the messy middle no one writes about,
where the old skin hasn't fully let me forget,
and the new one hasn't fully figured me out.
Some days I feel like ruins, still rebuilding,
brick by brick, from lessons I didn't choose,
some days I feel like sunlight, softly gilding
the parts of me I once believed I'd lose.
But maybe becoming was never meant to be neat,
maybe growth was never a straight, certain line,
maybe every stumble, every slow retreat,
is just another shape of being fine.
So I'll keep walking through this in-between,
this quiet, unfinished, sacred kind of space,
where nothing is wasted, even what's unseen,
even the doubt, even the waiting, even the grace.
I am not who I was. I am not who I'll become.
I am simply here — reaching, learning, unafraid,
becoming slowly, patiently, one day at a time,
trusting that the becoming is never truly delayed.