A Poem

Still
Becoming

Portrait of a person standing in soft morning light — I. Dawn

I was not born whole.
I came in fragments —
a scattered archive of light
that had not yet learned
how to stay in one place.
I was river before I was lake,
motion before I was meaning,
sound before I understood silence.

A lone mountain peak rising through mist and cloud — II. The Summit I Have Not Yet Named

Every mountain I have climbed
taught me a different shade of surrender.
The summit is not the reward —
the becoming is.
The burning calves, the thin air,
the moment you wonder
if you were wrong to begin.
You were not wrong to begin.
You were never wrong to begin.

Things I Am Learning About Becoming:

Growth is not linear — it loops, folds, and doubles back like a river finding its delta.
The version of you who was afraid was also brave enough to show up anyway.
You do not have to finish becoming before you are allowed to be loved.
Every scar is a timestamp, not a verdict.
Rest is not failure — it is the breath the poem takes between stanzas.
Some doors close so that your hands are free for what is coming next.

I am still learning
how to hold the unfinished.
How to love the draft
as much as the final print.
The lens does not apologise
for what it has not yet focused —
it simply adjusts,
lets more light in,
and waits
for the picture
to come clear.

A star-filled night sky over dark mountains — III. The Long Exposure

So here I stand —
not finished,
not broken,
not lost.
Only mid-sentence.
Only mid-frame.
Still becoming
what I was always
meant to be.

— Every Moment, Magnified.