Keys
to
my
room

I used to think I'd become something definitive by now. Like I'd cross some invisible finish line, get the certificate, and suddenly be wise, whole, and well-aligned. Instead, I find myself in motion. Still becoming.

Before I knew words could anchor truth, I thought I'd be a video journalist. I loved the dance of conversation and the question behind the question—why is something what it is? My voice didn't emerge through speeches or spotlight moments. It began in elementary school, where my creativity and interpersonal instincts came alive.

I crafted a makeshift newspaper—gossip beats and classroom headlines—folded with flair and monetized with ambition. Fifty cents a read, passed hand to hand like forbidden literature with glitter-pen editorials. Looking back, that was my first newsroom, powered by instinct and soft chaos. I wasn't trying to be seen. I was just trying to tell the story.

But perfectionism crept in later, disguised as discipline. I began treating creativity like a timed test—something that had to be right, refined, and worth applause. The pressure to become someone specific made me forget how bold I was when things were still messy.

"You don't have to be perfect to inspire others. Let people get inspired by how you deal with your imperfections." —Unknown

Some days, procrastination took the wheel—not because I didn't care, but because caring felt too heavy. The dreams were big, the steps were slow, and I carried guilt for every pause.

Until I realized this truth:

"Slow motion is better than no motion." —Denzel Washington

I'm trying my best now. That's my new leaf. I've learned that becoming isn't a dramatic arrival—it's a quiet decision to try again. Even if I do it slowly. Even if I'm scared. Even if I still have crumbs of doubt in my pockets.

The thing about becoming is that it doesn't wait for permission. It happens in the spaces between certainty—in the moment you choose to write the messy first draft, to ask the awkward question, to show up even when you don't feel ready. It's less like crossing a finish line and more like tending a garden that never stops growing.

I think about that elementary school version of me, fearless with her glitter pens and grand ambitions. She didn't know she was supposed to wait until she was qualified. She didn't know creativity was supposed to hurt. She just saw a story worth telling and figured out how to tell it, one folded page at a time.

Maybe wisdom isn't about arriving somewhere specific. Maybe it's about remembering that we've always been brave enough to begin, even when we didn't know what we were beginning. The newspaper was never about the fifty cents or the playground fame—it was about the electric feeling of making something from nothing, of turning curiosity into connection.

Now, when perfectionism tries to convince me I'm not ready, I remember the weight of those newspapers in my backpack. The way other kids would unfold them carefully, reading every word like it mattered. Because it did matter. Not because it was perfect, but because it was real.

The dreams are still big. The steps are still slow. But I'm learning to love the in-between—the rough drafts, the second tries, the moments when I surprise myself by showing up anyway. This is what becoming looks like: not a destination, but a way of walking. Not an achievement, but a practice.

And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's everything.