I did a lot of reflecting today, not just about where I’m going, but why I keep trying to get there so fast.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been trying to grow, to change, to become. It’s always been what’s next? What’s the next version of me I can become? What’s the next success that will finally make me feel proud of myself? I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I love growth. I love creating, I love trying, but I’m noticing something. Becoming became my personality, not growing, not evolving, that makes me anxious. Resting? Feels like falling behind. Being still? Feels like not being enough. I’ve tied my worth to my progress for so long that I forgot how to just be.
The hardest part is… I’ve gotten good at it. I know how to set goals, pivot, build something new, chase the next shiny thing. I don’t always know how to sit with myself when there’s nothing to prove.
I thought I was building my dreams, but I was also building escape routes. Every project, every idea, every reinvention felt like this might be the thing that finally makes me feel whole. Until I realized, no version of me is ever going to feel “healed enough” or “worthy enough” if I keep making healing a finish line.
I don’t want to stop becoming. I just want to stop believing I have to earn rest. Or prove my value through my next phase. Or market myself as “better than I used to be” in order to be seen.
So here’s where I am now:
I Don't Know.
I’m still growing.
I’m still becoming.
What I’m not going to do is make my becoming the only version of myself that’s allowed to exist. I’m allowed to be this version of me too, the in between one. The uncertain one. The one who wants to sit down, take a breath, and ask: Who am I if I’m not trying so hard?
Who am I if I’m not trying so hard?
That question scares me. Because not knowing who I am, not knowing what the next step is, has always felt unacceptable.
I’ve always known, or at least thought I knew, who I was. What the plan was. What the next goal needed to be.
My identity?
The oldest daughter from a first-generation Mexican household. The one who had it all together. The one who held everyone else together. The one with the answers. The one you called when you needed something, advice, guidance, strength.
But was that really me? Because here’s the thing about being that person: No one helps her. No one checks in. No one thinks to ask if she’s okay. Why? Because she’s the strong one. She has it all together… right? Wrong. So wrong. I didn’t have it together. I don’t have it together. And I’m struggling.
By the time I realized how heavy it all was, I was already drowning in it. I was resentful. I was angry. I was hurt. I was defeated. And most of all? I was tired. Tired of being the one who carries it all. Tired of being “just a mom.” (Gasp, right? Are we allowed to say that?)
How dare I think about me, my identity, my dreams, my healing, when I have kids to care for. When I’m supposed to be grateful. When I’m supposed to be strong.
But here’s my truth: If I’m not the strong one…If I’m not just a mom…Then who am I?
And that…
That question is the reason for this blog.
Not to teach you how to fix it. Not to wrap it in a bow. But to tell the truth. To unravel the roles I’ve been assigned. To figure it out, out loud, even when it’s uncomfortable. Because I think somewhere in this mess, there’s a version of me who’s allowed to just be, without proving, without performing, without pretending.
And I’m ready to find her.