You’re Not Done Becoming

There comes a point in life when it can feel as though most of the becoming should already be behind you. You've learned how to work, raise a family, survive difficult seasons, make decisions, carry responsibilities and keep moving when life doesn't go according to plan. Somewhere along the way, you develop a pretty solid picture of who you are. You know what you like, what you don't, what you're comfortable doing and what you've decided simply isn't you.

But what if some of those things aren't really who you are? What if they're only descriptions you've carried for so long that they started sounding permanent?

“I'm not a reader.” “I'm not comfortable speaking.” “I'd never walk into a room like that.” “That's just not something I do.”

It's surprisingly easy to build a life around sentences like those.

The interesting thing about growth is that it doesn't always announce itself. Sometimes you recognize it because you suddenly find yourself doing something that an earlier version of you would have avoided completely.

That happened recently during an improv session. There wasn't much preparation beforehand, partly because there wasn't much investigating beforehand. The woman leading it was someone whose communication and presence had caught my attention, so when she offered the session, the answer was simply yes.

Then came the actual improv.

Making sounds. Moving. Responding in the moment. Participating without having every word figured out before speaking.

For someone who has spent years becoming more comfortable using her voice, there were plenty of reasons that room could have felt intimidating. Instead, something else happened. It felt comfortable enough to participate, experiment and enjoy being there.

By the end, the thought wasn't, Thank goodness that's over.

It was, When is she doing this again?

The first and third Fridays are now going on the calendar.

That may seem like a small thing, but some of the most meaningful evidence of growth is small. It isn't always the certificate, promotion, big announcement or dramatic before-and-after moment. Sometimes it's noticing that a room that once would have scared you is now a room you're choosing to return to.

The following night brought another unusual experience: sitting down to watch a movie.

Television hasn't been part of everyday life around here for about seventeen years. There isn't cable or satellite, and there isn't a feeling that something is being missed because of it. Books, Audible, podcasts, conversations, mentorship, exploring and learning have gradually taken up that space.

But this movie had a purpose.

A small group gathered on Zoom to watch Roman Holiday, the Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck classic, at the suggestion of a mentor. When it ended, the real reason for watching became clearer through the conversation that followed. The discussion moved toward patience, presence, posture, listening and the ability to resist filling every quiet moment with more words.

Two experiences in two days couldn't have looked much more different. One involved making sounds and moving around during improv. The other involved sitting quietly and watching a movie made more than seventy years ago.

Yet both were reminders of the same thing.

There is always something else to learn if you're willing to remain teachable.

That hasn't always been a natural way of living for me. Reading wasn't encouraged much while growing up, and there certainly wasn't some lifelong love affair with books. Reading became more important later because children were watching, and telling them books mattered didn't mean much if they never saw that example.

What started for one reason eventually became something entirely different.

Today, learning is difficult to separate from everyday life. A book gets listened to more than once because something different lands the second time. A podcast raises a question. A mentor challenges an old way of thinking. A training develops a skill. A conversation reveals something that hadn't been considered before.

And perhaps that's one of the biggest misconceptions about becoming. We tend to associate it with the beginning of life.

Young people are supposed to be figuring themselves out. They're choosing careers, discovering what matters to them, developing skills and deciding what they want their lives to look like.

But when exactly are the rest of us supposed to stop?

Life doesn't stop giving us experiences simply because we've accumulated a certain number of birthdays. It doesn't stop introducing us to people who can teach us something. It doesn't stop presenting opportunities to become more confident, more curious, more capable or more willing to use the voice we've spent years finding.

Sometimes life changes so dramatically that the person you once were couldn't possibly remain exactly the same anyway.

When Jesse died seventeen years ago, there was no returning to the life we'd had together. There still isn't, and there doesn't need to be.

The woman who shared those years with him is part of the woman writing these words today. Everything we built together, everything learned during those years, and all the ways that relationship shaped me remain. So does the love. Carrying love in a new way has never required pretending that part of life didn't happen.

But seventeen years of living have happened since then too.

Those years count.

The experiences count. The hard parts count. The people met along the way count. The mistakes, moves, decisions, education, uncomfortable rooms and unexpected opportunities all become part of us too.

Six years ago, moving south came without a carefully mapped-out picture of what life would look like today. There was no way to know how much learning would happen here or how many new directions would open. Some education added completely new skills. Some simply put words and understanding around things life had already been teaching for years.

More importantly, learning became something worth seeking rather than something that ended when a course was finished.

That's why mentorship matters so much now. It's why books get replayed. It's why unfamiliar rooms are worth entering. It's why becoming more comfortable speaking and using my voice matters. And it's why dreams are beginning to look less like things to think about someday and more like things worthy of goals.

Because there is a difference between continuing to live and continuing to grow inside the life you're living.

Maybe you've felt that difference too.

Perhaps there's something you've been curious about but dismissed because it doesn't fit the version of yourself you've known for years. Maybe there's a room you've assumed isn't for you, something you'd like to learn, somewhere you'd like to go, a voice you'd like to use more confidently, or a dream you've quietly kept in the “someday” category.

You don't need to become someone completely different to explore any of it.

Growth doesn't require rejecting the person you've been. The past doesn't have to be erased so the future has room to exist. Everything you've lived can come with you while you continue adding to it.

That's what makes becoming so interesting.

You don't have to know exactly where it's taking you.

You only have to stop assuming you've already arrived.

You’re not done becoming.

I’m Claudette Eames, wellness advocate and certified mental wellness coach. Building a life that genuinely feels good to live, one choice at a time.

Claudette 🌻
Rooted in healing. Grounded in purpose.

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