The Path of Becoming: Where One Journey Ends, Another Begins
A closing reflection on stillness, courage, and joy ahead.
Dear Readers,
This past May, my writing took a new direction. You may have noticed that I’ve been exploring a different style. I’ve blended my usual storytelling with more symbolic imagery, concrete language, and lyrical writing. I wanted to grow in this area and share that growth with you through the Path of Becoming series. This change was about expanding my voice, not leaving my old voice behind. It’s been a season of learning and trusting new ways to express myself. That growth is leading me toward the next chapter of my creative journey. I hope this series blessed you.
How We Become Who We’re Meant to Be
Becoming is the lifelong process of growing into who we truly are by learning, discovering new parts of ourselves, and changing. It means allowing life to shape us without losing our curiosity. There are chapters where we let mistakes teach us instead of define us. And in times where we feel unfinished, we trust we are still enough.
Each poem in this series was both personal and universal. They were drawn from my own journey but written for anyone navigating their own “becoming.” I shared my fears, my failures, and my joys. I also explored how creativity, courage, and community lift us higher than we can imagine.
I intentionally never mentioned perfection because it doesn’t have a place here. This isn’t about showing off a pristine version of ourselves. Becoming is about listening, forsaking, stepping out, dancing, and taking in the joy that is ahead of us. Ultimately, the fruits of becoming are shown in our movements, from one path to another.
Listening for the Voice Within
When I wrote, He Had Always Been Afraid to Be a Butterfly, I honed in on the idea of stillness and listening.
There were moments in the poem where the caterpillar realized he had to pause before taking flight:
But when my cocoon formed,
I feared what was on the outside.
Or rather, I feared the worst once I finally emerged…
I waited for a shout from the mountaintops.
But only the wind whispered.
It was mostly stillness
during echoes of chaos,
long pauses that caught my attention...
The sound of my own voice echoed inside the cocoon…
I spoke life into myself inside my own shell.
Looking back on this I realized my worries concerned others’ thoughts instead of my own insight.
Stillness is the space between who we were and who we are becoming. It’s the peace that lets transformation take root. It’s the listening place. It’s the hush of the wind, the hum of our breath, the waiting period before our petals bloom and our wings unfurl.
In stillness, we learn that movement doesn’t always start as motion. It can begin as introspection. It is listening inward.
I understand a lot is happening in the world right now, and it can feel difficult to be contemplative. But maybe it’s time to turn off the news or silence the notifications. It might be a moment to unplug and disconnect, giving myself the opportunity to hear the voice inside me. I spend enough time listening to outside noise. Today, however, I attend to the calm within me for a change.
But stillness doesn’t last forever. Once I begin to hear myself again, that quiet voice often points toward change. That calm gives me the courage to leave the cocoon.
Forsaking What Doesn’t Serve Us
The Girl Who Left the Orchard describes a Buttercup flower intentionally walking away from her home in search of her true self and her tribe.
She left The Orderly Orchard
when the breeze outside the vines
called her name…
…she stepped outside
the straight and narrow path.
She did not pack sorrow
but it still slipped into her bag,
tucked between the need to grow
and the ache for something more.
I’m noticing here that the flower feels both uncertainty and courage. Two opposing emotions. She steps anyway.
What does it mean for her exit to leave her community? Her home. Her things. It means she is choosing to forgo everything she once identified with or was attached to. She is saying goodbye to whomever or whatever belongs to that orchard. She may be unconsciously accepting the grief that will jump inside her duffel bag as she walks away.
Leaving is painful, but I learned that there are times when it is necessary:
She did not return to The Orderly Orchard.
But something sacred met her on the path.
Familiars. Friends.
A grove of courageous Wildflowers kissed by the Sun
and drinking from an ever-moving stream.
I’m seeing that the Buttercup may have looked back prior, but she didn’t turn around. Not even once. With heaviness looming about her, she kept strolling hoping something better was ahead: a source of strength and fountain of affirmation.
One of the biggest hurdles in leaving people, places, or things is the fear of rejection. It hurts— especially if you have spent years building close connections and found meaning. But think of it this way: when the Buttercup exited the orchard, she headed to another destination as the trees flapped closed behind her. It comes to my attention that sometimes rejection is just redirection. That’s becoming.
The Buttercup looked back at the orchard but kept walking until she encountered Bright Mother Sun. It may have felt good to stay behind or bend to the control of others. She had always done so. Doing the same thing over and over can be comfortable. But the flower discovered along the way that it was also stagnant.
Safety isn’t always growth.
Could it be time for you to step out and move on to a new destination in your life? Open the door and see— something brighter… something more plentiful… something more assuring could be waiting for you on the other side.
Leaving often brings fear with it. So, after the orchard, the next challenge is learning to step forward even so.
Stepping Out from Fear
The poems Where the Lily Pad Waited and The Dragon Who Became a Peacock both touch on this idea of actively coming out of hiding and overcoming fear.
She tucked her legs into her warm shell,
in her comfy makeshift home,
away from that cage of a world…
The wind whispered to his soul,
but the armored bug named it danger.
So he stayed still,
mindlessly tracing his questions into bark.
He wore his scales like armor
yet they whispered ‘bout his walk.
He stayed in pose, avoiding suspicion.
Kept his true colors beneath a thick smock.
Rereading these two excerpts, I see that staying away, staying still, and staying beneath were early signs of fear for these three characters.
Why do we hide like the ladybug and the little dragon? Why do we freeze in taking action as the beetle did?
I figured out that fear tells us we are safer if we are small. We are secure when we are are not an inconvenience. It convinces us that staying still means we will not break. It whispers that failure will destroy us, that rejection will define us, that our light will draw too much attention. Fear dresses itself as wisdom. It cosplays as caution. If we’re not careful, fear could even sound like logic. In reality, fear is longing. In our fear, we long to be seen, comforted, and affirmed. The truth is that fear does not protect us from pain. Fear protects us from growth. And when we give it too much attention, we mistake fear for gospel truth.
Becoming often means taking a risk despite what fear whispers. Once we step out, we may begin to find others who are taking the same step, like the ladybug and beetle. We’ll see that stepping off the branch of fear gives us room to fulfill the true longings of our heart. A lily pad of comfort. A fire of protection. Voices of assurance.
Fear doesn’t disappear, but we can still move despite its presence. We can trust and take action, whether that’s a literal step or a drop in the ocean. Maybe the first step away from fear is taking off a mask. Maybe it’s waltzing directly into the fire—with our head held high.
Dancing in the Midst of Shame
Recall both the peacock in The Dragon poem and the “Boy Kite” in my color guard story.
His bright feathered tail spread in full color...
In that holy flame, he started to twirl.
He danced where they expected disgrace.
Finally, he was higher than fear.
…his chest poked out.
A sigh flared from his nostrils.
His mind reassured his heart,
“Step right. Swing left.
I got this part.”
I love how their small strides (when put together) made for a grand display of strength.
The peacock and the boy were hiding to keep their sense of self secure. They hid to reduce shame because their brightness was not accepted. But later, they understood they had to let go of their false sense of security and unfurl the wings they had been keeping from everybody.
To dance in the midst of shame is to remember your body still belongs to you. It’s choosing movement when everything in you wants to hide. It’s the quiet rebellion of joy in a place that once told you to shrink. The fire that circles around you is not something to fear. That light reveals the truth— that you are still here. You’re still worthy. You’re still full of beauty. To dance in shame’s presence is to honor your own journey. Dancing lets grace free you from suppression and control.
Becoming involves twirling in circles that show your brightness; just expect the heat.
What would it look like for you to put your light on display despite the naysayers? How would it feel to let the scales fall and just prance?
When we learn to dance through shame, freedom follows. It’s the kind that lets us look forward with joy.
Taking Joy in What Is to Come
Let’s take a final look at the reflection part of The Boy Kite that Billowed, and focus on the kite imagery.
Each swing of the flag felt like a string pulling me upward…
I was a kite in the air, bright and bold swinging with the pockets of the wind…
I let gusts of wind pick me up knowing if I fell another gale was coming.
Whew… It dawned on me that to trust is to rely on something while not completely knowing the outcome.
To take joy in looking forward is to live with open hands. It means meeting tomorrow not with fear or control, but with curiosity and gratitude for what is still unfolding. The boy and his kite remind us that hope is the wind that lifts us. Perfection does nothing. Even when the string trembles or slips from our grip, something greater carries us onward. Looking forward with joy is an act of trust. It’s like having a vision. We see a celebration of the unseen paths that rise to meet us when we dare to lift our eyes.
Becoming involves listening. It includes trusting. It invites acceptance and the work of de-shaming. But it’s also about movement. When our soul is ready, we move into what’s next.
Closing
So here we are, at the end of this Path of Becoming series. But it’s not the end of the journey.
Every path teaches its own language of becoming. This path I am on taught me to trust what’s still forming. That trust has taken shape as something brand new: a story I can’t wait to share with you the next time we meet.
Until then, may you keep lifting like kites, dancing in fire, and stepping boldly into your own becoming.
