Everyone is writing on becoming.
Books.
Essays.
Podcasts filled with stories of finding purpose, chasing dreams, building brands.
A relentless pursuit of what to be, who to be, how to be.
But who really decides what becoming means?
Is it a career?
A title?
A moment of applause?
A place where everything finally makes sense?
What if the real work is in unbecoming?
Not chasing some grand version of success someone sold you,
But peeling back the layers you’ve worn just to survive.
Unlearning the noise.
Unbinding yourself from the definitions you inherited,
From the stories you outgrew.
It’s not a straight path.
There’s no map.
There’s no “aha” moment where the light stays on forever.
It’s subtle. It’s slow.
It’s a series of quiet revelations—
A soft whisper showing you what truly matters.
Not what makes the most money.
Not what looks good in a bio.
But what ignites you from within.
Unbecoming is the journey.
The freedom to not know.
The grace to change.
The courage to say, this isn’t me anymore.
And to walk away—
Even if it looked perfect on the outside.
Because you could gain it all,
And still feel empty.
Or you could shed it all,
And finally feel whole.
So don’t sweat the destination.
There isn’t one.
Just a life lived deeply,
Peeling back the layers
Until only truth remains.