The Girl Who Kept Becoming

CHAPTER ONE

The Girl Nobody Really Saw

The Little Girl

I was a little girl with a world inside my head that was much bigger than the one around me.

I imagined things people didn't always understand.

I questioned everything.

My existence.

The world.

What comes after this life.

Why are people the way they are?

Why I felt the way I felt.

I was curious about things other kids my age didn't always think about.

Maybe that made me different.

But I don't think being different was ever a bad thing.

I was creative, too.

Art was one of the places where I felt like I could actually breathe. I loved painting and drawing, creating something from nothing and watching an idea become real in front of me.

I loved music.

I loved singing.

I loved dancing, especially ballet and contemporary, because there was something about movement that made feelings easier to express when words weren't enough.

I had so many dreams.

I wanted to study fashion in London. I wanted to see Greece. I wanted to see Antarctica and learn about what was left there. I wanted to make music. I wanted to create. I wanted to become the best version of myself.

I was ambitious before I even knew what ambition meant.

And I cared.

Maybe too much sometimes.

I could put myself in someone else's shoes so easily that I would forget I had my own shoes to stand in.

If someone said something hateful to me, it hurt.

I was sensitive.

And I still am.

I used to think being sensitive meant being weak.

Now I'm starting to think it means I feel the world deeply.

I was independent, too.

I learned to figure things out by myself because somewhere inside me, I was afraid that if I depended too much on people, I would eventually be left behind.

So I learned things the hard way.

I learned to carry myself.

I learned to keep things inside.

And somewhere along the way, I became misunderstood.

People could see the things I did.

But they couldn't always see the reasons behind them.

They saw a girl who was different.

A girl who felt deeply.

A girl who questioned everything.

A girl who dreamed about places she had never seen.

A girl who could spend hours lost inside her own imagination.

But underneath all of that was just a child.

A child who wanted to be understood.

A child who wanted to be loved.

A child who wanted someone to look at her and say,

"I see you."

And maybe that's why I'm writing this now.

Because I finally do.

The World Inside Her Head

There was a whole universe inside my head.

Sometimes I think it was bigger than the world outside of me.

My imagination could take me places I had never been.

London.

Greece.

Antarctica.

Portugal.

Japan.

Places I had only seen in pictures or heard about, but somehow I could already imagine myself standing there.

I would wonder about everything.

What is beyond what we can see?

Why are we here?

What happens after we die?

Why do people hurt each other?

Why do some things feel so beautiful while others feel so painful?

I asked questions that didn't always have answers.

And when there weren't answers, I created my own worlds.

Art became one of them.

Music became another.

Sometimes I could sit and draw and completely forget about everything around me.

Sometimes I would listen to music and imagine stories that didn't exist anywhere except inside my head.

Sometimes I would dance and let my body say everything my mouth couldn't.

I didn't know it then, but creativity was becoming my language.

I had dreams that probably sounded too big for a little girl.

I wanted to study fashion in London.

I wanted to travel.

I wanted to see places I'd never seen before.

I wanted to make music.

I wanted to become someone I could look at and be proud of.

I wanted to become the best version of myself.

And I think that's one of the strangest things about me.

Even when I didn't understand myself, I could imagine a future version of myself so clearly.

There was always another version of me somewhere in my mind.

She was older.

She was creating.

She was traveling.

She was learning.

She was happy.

She had stories to tell.

I didn't know how I would become her.

I didn't even know if I would.

But I could imagine her.

And sometimes, imagining her was enough to make me wonder what tomorrow might look like.

My mind could be a beautiful place.

It could also be overwhelming.

I felt things deeply.

I thought too much.

I cared too much.

I wondered too much.

Sometimes my thoughts were louder than everything around me.

But even then, there was something inside me that kept whispering about the future.

A little voice saying,

"There is still something ahead of you."

I didn't know what that something was.

I just knew I wanted to find it.

And maybe that was the beginning of hope.

Not a huge, glowing light.

Just a tiny thought.

A tiny question.

"What if tomorrow is different?"

So I kept imagining.

I kept creating.

I kept dreaming.

Because somewhere inside that little girl's mind was a future she hadn't met yet.

And she was waiting for me.

The girl in the mirror

The girl in the mirror didn't look like the girl inside my head.

Inside my head, I was creative.

Curious.

Ambitious.

Someone who had dreams bigger than the places she had been.

But when I looked at myself, I didn't always see any of that.

I saw everything I thought was wrong.

Ugly.

Stupid.

A mistake.

A freak.

A monster.

Different.

Sometimes I even wondered if I was supposed to be here at all.

It is strange how a mirror can show you your reflection without showing you who you really are.

I couldn't see the girl who loved art.

I couldn't see the girl who dreamed about traveling the world.

I couldn't see the girl who wanted to dance, sing, create, learn, and become something she could be proud of.

I saw every flaw before I saw anything beautiful.

And when you hear negative things about yourself enough times, sometimes you don't need someone else to say them anymore.

You start saying them for them.

You become your own critic.

Your own judge.

Your own enemy.

I thought being different meant something was wrong with me.

I thought making mistakes meant I was a mistake.

I thought failing meant I wasn't worthy of becoming the person I dreamed about.

I didn't understand that a child can struggle without being bad.

I didn't understand that being sensitive doesn't make you weak.

I didn't understand that being different doesn't make you broken.

I didn't understand that I was still growing.

I was only a little girl looking into a mirror and trying to figure out what was wrong with her.

But there was nothing wrong with her.

She just couldn't see herself clearly yet.

And now, years later, I wish I could reach through that mirror.

I wish I could take her face gently into my hands and tell her:

"Look at me."

"You are not a mistake."

"You are not a monster."

"You are not too much."

"You are not something the world would be better without."

"You are my little girl."

"And I love you."

Maybe one day, when I look into the mirror, I won't search for everything I need to change.

Maybe I'll look at myself and see everything I've survived.

Everything I've created.

Everything I've learned.

Everything I'm still becoming.

And maybe that will be the day I finally recognize her.

The girl who was always there.

The girl I thought nobody could love.

The girl I finally learned to love myself.

The Things She Never Said

There were so many things I never said.

Not because I didn't have anything to say.

Because I didn't know how.

Sometimes I wanted to say:

"I'm not okay."

"I'm hurting."

"My mind doesn't feel safe anymore."

"I don't know what's happening to me."

"I need help."

But the words always seemed to get stuck somewhere inside me.

I was scared of becoming a burden.

So I stayed quiet.

I thought maybe if I didn't talk about it, nobody would have to worry about me.

Maybe if I kept everything inside, I could make things easier for everyone else.

So I learned how to say "I'm fine" when I wasn't.

I learned how to smile while carrying things nobody knew about.

I learned how to cry quietly.

I learned how to disappear into myself.

And there was something else I never knew how to say:

"I'm sorry."

I'm sorry, Mom.

I'm sorry I wasn't always the daughter you wanted me to be.

I'm sorry I made mistakes.

I'm sorry I couldn't always understand what you wanted from me.

I'm sorry I kept struggling.

I wanted so badly to be the daughter you could be proud of.

The daughter who got everything right.

The daughter who never caused problems.

The daughter who never needed too much.

I thought if I could just become that girl, maybe I would finally feel like I belonged.

But I was already your daughter.

I was already somebody's child.

I shouldn't have needed to earn the right to be loved.

And maybe that is what I wish I could tell little me now.

You were allowed to need help.

You were allowed to cry.

You were allowed to make mistakes.

You were allowed to be confused.

You were allowed to say,

"I don't know what I'm doing."

You were allowed to say,

"Please listen to me."

You were allowed to be a child.

I wish you had known that silence doesn't make pain disappear.

It only makes you carry it alone.

So if you're reading this and there are words trapped inside you too—

Please find somewhere safe for them to go.

A journal.

A trusted person.

A teacher.

A counselor.

A friend.

Anywhere.

You don't have to explain everything perfectly.

Sometimes the first sentence can simply be:

"I'm not okay, and I don't know how to say it."

That is enough to begin.

Because you deserve to be heard.

And I wish I had known that sooner.

The Expectations

I carried a lot of expectations for someone so young.

Some came from my mom.

Some came from my dad.

Some came from my siblings.

But the heaviest ones came from me.

I wanted to be everything.

The daughter everyone could be proud of.

The sibling who never disappointed anyone.

The person who always knew what she was doing.

The future version of myself that had already figured everything out.

I thought I had to succeed at everything I touched.

Because somewhere inside my head, I had connected failure with something much bigger.

If I failed, I thought I would never become the person I dreamed of being.

If I failed, maybe nobody would care.

Maybe I would end up alone.

Maybe I would have no friends.

Maybe I would have no family.

Maybe I would grow up and realize that I had wasted everything.

So every mistake felt enormous.

A bad day didn't feel like a bad day.

It felt like proof that I was failing at being myself.

I didn't understand that you can fail at something without being a failure.

I didn't understand that one mistake cannot predict an entire life.

I didn't understand that growing up isn't a straight line.

There were times when I looked at other people and wondered why I couldn't be more like them.

Why couldn't I be smarter?

Prettier?

Better?

More normal?

More successful?

Why couldn't I just get everything right?

But I was comparing my unfinished story to people I barely understood.

And I was expecting a child to know how to build a whole future.

Looking back, I wish I could tell her:

You don't have to carry everyone's expectations.

You don't have to become perfect to deserve love.

You don't have to know exactly who you're going to be.

You are allowed to change your mind.

You are allowed to fail.

You are allowed to try again.

And most importantly—

you are allowed to become someone different from what everyone imagined.

Because your life belongs to you.

Not to the expectations.

Not to the mistakes.

Not to the version of you that you thought you had to become.

You get to decide who you become.

And maybe that's what growing up really is.

Not becoming everything everyone expected.

But slowly discovering what you expect from yourself.

And learning that sometimes...

Being enough doesn't mean being perfect.

It means being here.

Trying.

Learning.

And becoming.

The Tiny Light

Even when everything inside me felt dark, there was always something I couldn't completely let go of.

Art.

Music.

Dreams.

And somehow, myself.

I didn't always love myself.

There were days when I couldn't even recognize the person I saw in the mirror.

But somewhere underneath all that pain, there was a tiny part of me that didn't want my story to end there.

It wanted to know what would happen next.

What would happen if I kept going?

What would happen if I learned to draw again?

What would happen if I became the artist I dreamed about?

What would happen if I traveled?

If I danced?

If I made music?

If I went to school and learned everything I wanted to learn?

What would happen if I actually became the person I kept imagining?

I didn't know.

And maybe that was enough.

Because I didn't need to know exactly what the future looked like.

I just needed to believe there could be one.

Some days, I would be crying and still think about my dreams.

Somewhere in the middle of all that sadness, there was still a little voice inside me saying:

Keep going.

Not because everything was suddenly okay.

It wasn't.

Not because I suddenly loved myself.

I didn't.

But because I had made a promise to myself.

I wouldn't give up on my dreams.

I wouldn't let the worst moments of my life decide the ending.

Art was still waiting for me.

Music was still waiting for me.

Dance was still waiting for me.

The future was still waiting for me.

And maybe, just maybe...

I was waiting for myself too.

The light wasn't big.

It wasn't bright enough to make everything disappear.

It was tiny.

Sometimes it was barely there.

But it was there.

And I learned something:

Hope doesn't always feel like happiness.

Sometimes hope is simply the thought that says,

"Maybe tomorrow will be different."

Sometimes hope is getting out of bed.

Sometimes it's picking up a pencil again.

Sometimes it's listening to a song and imagining the person you might become.

Sometimes it's simply deciding to see what happens next.

My dreams didn't magically save me.

But they gave me somewhere to look.

And when I couldn't see anything good in myself yet...

I could still see something worth becoming.

So I held onto that tiny light.

And I kept walking.

Slowly.

Imperfectly.

But forward.

Because there was still a girl inside me who wanted to live her life.

And I wasn't ready to abandon her.

Looking Back

Sometimes I look back at the little girl I used to be and I don't understand how she carried so much.

She was so young.

She didn't have all the answers.

She didn't know what life would become.

And yet, she kept dreaming.

She kept creating.

She kept wondering.

She kept hoping.

For so long, I looked at her through the eyes of the person I thought she should have been.

I saw her mistakes.

Her sensitivity.

Her struggles.

The things she couldn't understand.

The things she couldn't control.

But now I want to look at her differently.

I want to see her the way she deserves to be seen.

She wasn't a mistake.

She wasn't a monster.

She wasn't a burden.

She was a beautiful little person who was trying her best with what she had.

And if I had a daughter like her?

I would love her so much.

I would tell her that she doesn't have to earn my love.

I'd listen when she spoke.

I'd hold her when she cried.

I'd tell her that being sensitive isn't something she needs to apologize for.

I'd tell her that her imagination is beautiful.

I'd tell her to keep drawing.

Keep dancing.

Keep singing.

Keep asking questions.

Keep dreaming.

I'd tell her that she doesn't have to know who she's going to become yet.

I'd let her be a child.

And maybe the hardest thing I've had to learn is that I can give some of that love to myself now.

I can look at the girl in those old pictures and say:

"I love you."

Not because you were perfect.

Not because you did everything right.

But because you were you.

And you deserved love before you accomplished anything.

You deserved it before you became successful.

Before you became confident.

Before you became the person you dreamed about.

You deserved it simply because you existed.

And I'm proud of you.

I'm proud that you kept dreaming.

I'm proud that you kept creating.

I'm proud that you kept looking toward the future, even when you couldn't imagine yourself reaching it.

I'm proud of you for every tiny step you took.

And most of all...

I'm proud of you for not giving up on the girl you wanted to become.

Because when I look at you now, I don't see a mistake.

I see the beginning.

I see the artist.

I see the dreamer.

I see the girl who had no idea how far she would go.

And I see myself.

Maybe that's what growing up really means.

Looking back at who you were...

and finally realizing that she was worth loving all along.

A Letter to Her

Written when I was fourteen.

“Hey, little me,

I know you cry when no one is looking.

I know you feel heavy and confused, like you don't understand why things hurt so much.

I want you to know something important:

You didn't do anything wrong.

You were sensitive, kind, and aware in a world that didn't always protect you.

I know you felt alone sometimes.

I know you felt like you had to be strong too early.

But listen to me—

you made it.

I'm here now.

I still feel sadness sometimes, but I also feel hope.

I can dream.

I can think.

I can imagine a future.

Everything you felt mattered.

And I promise:

I won't forget you.

I'll carry you gently, not painfully.

You are safe with me now.

Love,

Me”