Still Becoming

There are times in life when everything seems to settle into place. You know where you live, what your days look like, what your responsibilities are, and, more or less, what comes next.

This is not one of those times.

Lately, I feel as though I’m living somewhere between chapters. One part of my life is ending, another is beginning, and several others seem to be rewriting themselves without bothering to ask my permission first.

If someone were to ask me, “How are things?” I’m not sure there is a simple answer.

Things are hard.

Things are exciting.

Things are changing.

I’m tired.

I’m worried.

I’m hopeful.

I’m curious.

And somehow, all of those things are true at the same time.

For months, my husband and I have been waiting for our new home to be finished. I have chosen cabinets, countertops, hardware, siding, flooring, and all those little details that eventually become the background of everyday life. I’ve imagined where the furniture will go, where I’ll sit with my morning coffee, where the dog will stretch out, and where I might create a small space just for myself.

There is something wonderfully optimistic about building a house. You are making decisions for a future you assume will arrive.

And yet, while that house has been taking shape, life has reminded me that the future is never quite as predictable as a construction schedule.

Someone I love has been dealing with serious health problems, and our lives have increasingly revolved around appointments, treatments, medications, hospital stays, good days, difficult days, and the endless logistics that come with illness.

There is a strange quality to caregiving. Your world can become very small while your thoughts become very large.

You think about things you never particularly wanted to think about.

You become grateful for things you once took for granted.

A normal afternoon can suddenly feel precious.

And while all of that has been happening, another part of my life has been doing something completely unexpected.

It has been expanding.

A little over a year ago, I was simply someone who had written a story.

Now The Mystical Sanctuary is a published book. People I have never met have read it. I’ve talked about it on a podcast. I’ve heard from readers. I’ve begun writing its sequel, The Whispering Field. And recently, I’ve even found myself having conversations about possibilities for the story that I certainly never imagined when I first sat down to write it.

I have no idea where any of those possibilities will lead.

Maybe somewhere.

Maybe nowhere.

But even the possibility has reminded me of something important: life can still surprise us.

Apparently, there is no age at which the universe hands you a little certificate announcing, “That’s it. You are now completely formed.”

Thank goodness.

Because lately I have also been learning about things I might once have considered a little outside my usual lane.

Tarot. Chakras. Spirituality. Symbols. Rituals. Intuition. The old traditions behind things people have practiced for centuries.

I’m not interested in blindly believing everything I encounter. Curiosity, for me, has never meant abandoning common sense. It simply means allowing myself to wonder.

What does this mean?

Where did this belief come from?

Why are human beings drawn to symbols?

Why do certain ideas resonate with us?

Is there something here that can help me understand myself—or simply help me slow down and pay attention?

At this stage of my life, I find that I’m much less interested in having all the answers.

I’m becoming much more comfortable with the questions.

Maybe that’s one of the gifts of getting older.

When we’re younger, so much energy goes into becoming somebody. We establish careers, raise families, build relationships, make homes, pay bills, meet expectations, and try—sometimes desperately—to figure out what we’re supposed to be doing.

Eventually, you might assume you have arrived.

Except I’m beginning to suspect that nobody really arrives.

We keep changing.

We lose things.

We discover things.

We outgrow things we once believed.

We return to things we once loved.

We meet versions of ourselves we didn’t know were waiting.

And sometimes the difficult seasons seem to sharpen our awareness of the beautiful ones.

I notice little things more now.

A peaceful moment outside.

My dog nearby.

A conversation with one of my sons.

A new idea for a story that appears out of nowhere.

A tarot card that makes me stop and think.

The anticipation of opening the door to a new home for the first time.

A message from someone who enjoyed something I created.

None of those things erases worry.

That may be the part I’m only now learning.

Joy does not always arrive after sadness has left.

Hope doesn’t wait politely for uncertainty to finish.

Wonderful things and frightening things can walk through the door together.

For a long time, I think I imagined life as a series of chapters that stayed politely separated from one another. First this happens. Then that happens. One period ends and another begins.

Real life is much messier.

Sometimes you are grieving one thing while celebrating another. You can feel exhausted and inspired on the same afternoon. You can worry about someone you love while simultaneously becoming excited about a new idea. You can be afraid of what is coming and still look forward to it.

Perhaps maturity isn’t learning how to eliminate those contradictions.

Perhaps it is learning how to hold them.

Right now, I am standing in one of those strange in-between places.

A house is almost finished.

A book is still finding its way into the world.

Another book is slowly becoming real.

People I love are changing.

I am changing.

Some days I would happily trade all this uncertainty for a quiet stretch of ordinary life.

But another part of me—the curious part—wants to see what happens next.

Because apparently, even now, I am still becoming.

And I rather like that.

Are you in an in-between season of your own? What are you leaving behind—and what, perhaps unexpectedly, are you becoming?