A reflection on becoming, unbecoming, and remembering who I was before the world told me who to be.

There’s this quote by Emily McDowell I stumbled across recently. Maybe you’ve seen it. It begins with:

“Finding yourself is not really how it works. You aren’t a ten-dollar bill in last winter’s coat pocket. You are also not lost.”

And the rest of it? Well, it felt like someone had read my journal out loud.

I’ve always been searching for something: clarity, purpose, a compass that doesn’t point to other people’s expectations. For a long time, I thought finding myself would mean reinventing everything. Scrubbing away the past. Starting fresh.

But what if it’s not about becoming someone new? What if it’s about coming home?

Unlearning to Remember

So much of who I thought I had to be was shaped by noise. Society. Relatives. Old wounds dressed up as armor. Even silence can be loud when it’s filled with shame.

But I’ve started to see things differently. The older I get, the more I realize that returning to myself means peeling back those layers, not adding more. It’s an excavation. A slow, gentle dusting away of the rubble to reveal the girl who was always underneath.

The one who daydreamed about ghosts. The one who drove down long roads and highways when things weighed heavily on my spirit. The one who always, always knew how to listen.

Sometimes I think we grow into ourselves the same way trees do—not just upward, but inward. Not only branching out, but rooting down.

The Self Before the World Got Involved

Who was I before the world got its hands on me?

I was quiet, but full of stories. Soft, but not weak. Curious. Tender. Haunted in the most beautiful way.

And that girl? She’s still here. She’s always been here. I just forgot how to see her for a while.

Writing has helped me remember. So has caregiving. So have long walks, sleepless nights, and small kindnesses that no one saw but still mattered.

There’s something sacred in the moments when no one is watching. When you’re not performing, proving, or striving. Just existing. Breathing. Letting yourself be.

Becoming Again

This chapter of my life feels like a becoming, but not in the way I once thought.

It’s not about adding glitter or titles or shiny new identities. It’s about shedding. Simplifying. Returning.

It’s about saying: “I’m here. I remember now. I know who I am. And she’s enough.”

Because maybe finding yourself isn’t a search party. Maybe it’s a homecoming. A remembering. A reclaiming of what was never really gone.

Have you ever felt this way, too? Like the person you’re trying to become is actually someone you used to be? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Until next time, dear soul. Keep your lantern lit, your heart soft, and your story sacred.

With love & a little moonlight,
Abigail