Becoming yourself takes longer than anyone tells you.
And it’s way messier.
It’s not a tidy, curated process. It’s not a movie montage scored by Bon Iver. It’s not a retreat in Bali where everything falls into place over coconut water and epiphanies.
It’s wearing shoes that don’t fit, for years. Loving people who teach you everything except how to stay. Saying the wrong thing. Doubting the right one. Laughing at the worst time, crying for reasons you can’t explain.
It’s buying kombucha because you think it makes you someone. Finishing it out of principle. Wondering if identity tastes like vinegar.
It’s waking up at 3:41 a.m. with a memory from ten years ago lodged in your throat. Whispering, “That’s who I was.” And then rolling over and going back to sleep.
I remember a man at a train station outside Osaka. He wore mismatched socks—one green, one blue—and played a tiny harmonica while waiting for the train.
He didn’t do it for money. Or attention. Just to pass time.
When he noticed me watching, he paused, grinned, and said, “You don’t find out who you are. You wear yourself down until there’s nothing left but what you were always meant to be.”
Then he went back to playing “Yesterday” like it was the only song worth remembering.
Most people think they’ll arrive at some point. By 30. By 40. When the job settles. When the love sticks. When the mirror doesn’t surprise them.
But you don’t arrive. You soften. You shed. You sit down. You let go. You compost.
You grow into your own skin the way ivy wraps a wall—slowly, unevenly, beautifully.
You begin to enjoy the silence.
You alphabetize your spice rack.
You start waving back at your past selves instead of running from them.
The questions don’t disappear. They just get gentler. Less urgent.
And suddenly, without fanfare, you realize:
You’re no longer becoming someone else.
You’re just becoming… you.
So let people think you’re lost.
You’re not.
You’re composting.
And if nothing else, may you live long enough to wear mismatched socks on purpose—
And play your own tune while waiting for whatever comes next.
life 
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