Becoming, Not Arriving

Another birthday came and went.

No big party. No over the top celebration. Just a quiet moment of noticing—how time keeps moving, how I keep moving with it. Another cycle. Another year of breathing, trying, stumbling, learning. Of holding on to what matters, and letting go of what no longer does.

I spent the day with the love of my life, Ingrid, and my son. I soaked it ALL in...the love, the prsesence, the little moments. I watched my son experience firsts, tiny little miracles that I’ll carry with me forever. I felt what it means to be surrounded by love, not just in words but in the way they look at me, in the way we move through the day together. That’s what mattered.

That’s what filled me up.

And you know what I realized more than ever this time around? Birthdays feel different now. Not in a sad way, just… more real and intentioal, if that makes sense. I don’t count candles anymore. I count growth. The kind you can’t always see because it's not clearly defined by surface level benchmarks. The kind that comes in silence, in small choices, in getting back up again. This past year wasn’t shiny or perfect. It was gritty. Unfiltered. Honest. And that makes it something I’m truly and wholeheartedly proud of.

Because life isn’t all about hitting milestones or checking boxes. It’s not about arriving at some final version of myself. Don't get me wrong, it can be fun and satisfying to do those things to present themselves, but it's more about becoming, slowly, painfully, beautifully, and learning to find some peace in that in-between space.

That’s where I’ve been living this year.

In the mess. In the quiet. In the beauty.

In the stretch between who I was and who I’m learning to be.

And honestly? There’s something sacred about that.

The Illusion of Arrival

For a long time, I chased the idea of arrival.

That there would be a moment. Some undeniable, cinematic, soul-redefining moment, where everything would just click. That moment of clarity. That epiphany where I’d all of a sudden feel whole. Where the pain would make sense, the confusion would miraculous lift, and I’d finally feel like I made it.

For so long, I believed that one day I’d wake up and feel... done. I'd feel like I made it or that I was recovered. Settled. 100% Certain. As if I was standing on solid ground, finally beyond the questions, beyond the self-doubt, beyond the pain and suffering. I thought healing would have an endpoint. That peace would have a finish line. That love, success, fulfillment—were things I could reach out and grasp and keep.

But this past year shattered that illusion in the best and hardest way.

Because arrival? It’s not real. It’s a story we’re sold. A lie that if we just do enough or become enough or heal enough or make enough, we’ll get there. But there’s no “there.” There’s only here. And here is always shifting.

You don’t arrive at peace. You learn how to sit with yourself, even in discomfort. You learn how to breathe through chaos. You learn how to soften without giving up.

You don’t arrive at love. You keep showing up for it. You keep choosing it, even when it’s inconvenient or scary. You learn how to hold it gently, not cling to it tightly.

You don’t arrive at success. You keep redefining what that means to you. Sometimes success is launching something new. Sometimes it’s just getting out of bed. Sometimes it’s letting go.

It’s all an unfolding. A constant becoming.

Each day, each mess, each moment that doesn’t go as planned, they’re not failures. They’re invitations. To stay present. To stretch. To soften. To grow.

And I won’t lie. Sometimes the in-between feels unbearable. The discomfort makes me want to run, to hide, to crawl out of my own skin...to just escape. I feel like I’m floating in a fog, untethered, unsure of where to step next. But I’m learning to trust that space. To stop sprinting toward certainty. To stop trying to arrive and instead let myself be here, even if it’s messy.

Especially if it’s messy.

Because that’s the work. That’s the truth. That’s where life is actually lived, not in the highlight reels, not at the finish lines, but in the spaces we’re often tempted to skip over.

This year reminded me that I’m not broken for still figuring it out. I’m not behind for still feeling lost sometimes. I’m not failing for not having all the answers. I’m becoming. That’s the point.

Becoming requires softness. It requires patience. It requires the kind of quiet honesty that no one applauds you for, but that builds a life rooted in truth.

I’m not chasing arrival anymore. I’m learning to belong to the process. To trust the process. And have faith and believe that I don't have all the pieces to the puzzle in this thing called life. That a power greater than myself, which I choose to call God, has plans for me beyond my wildest dreams. I just have to keep doing the right thing and showing up, no matter what.

And there’s something beautiful about that.

The Pain That Shaped Me

This year didn’t break me.

But it came close on several occasions.

There were days I woke up with a weight on my chest that I couldn’t explain. Mornings where I moved through routine like I was underwater—showing up, holding it together, smiling when I needed to, but barely holding on underneath it all. Nights when I lay in bed long after everyone else was asleep, staring at the ceiling, wondering how I was going to survive. Wondering who I was even becoming in the process.

I’ve always carried a lot. For others. For myself. And most of the time, no one sees it. That’s the thing about silent struggles—they don’t make noise, but they still take up space. There were moments this year when I felt so stretched, so raw, I wondered if maybe I’d finally hit my edge.

I doubted myself more than I’d like to admit. I questioned whether I was showing up the way I needed to, for my son, for my partner, the people who count on me. I had to face parts of myself I’d worked hard to avoid. The fear. The old patterns. The stories I still carry about not being enough, about needing to have it all together to be worthy of love, of rest, of grace.

But I didn’t run this time. Thank God.

I didn’t shove it down. I didn’t escape. I stayed. I sat in it. I let the pain speak.

I let it tear through the walls I’d built around my heart. I let it pull me under, not to drown me, but to teach me how to breathe differently. To teach me how to come back up slower, softer, more honest.

Pain has a way of stripping you down to the bare essentials. It reveals what actually matters. What’s worth holding onto. And who you are when there’s nothing left to prove.

I realized this year that pain doesn’t always show up like fire. Sometimes it’s quiet. Soemtimes its subtle. A slow erosion of what used to hold you up. But it’s still powerful. And it still demands to be felt.

And when I finally stopped fighting it, when I let it move through me, I found something deeper on the other side. Not answers, not resolution, but clarity. A sense of self that wasn’t based on performance or perfection, but presence. The purest form of surrender.

The pain didn’t destroy me.

It refined me.

It burned away the bullshit. The noise. The false narratives. It softened the hard edges that no longer served me, but it didn’t make me weaker. If anything, it made me more human. More aware. More willing to hold space for the full spectrum of what it means to live and love and lose and keep going anyway.

It taught me that strength isn’t always loud. It’s quiet. It’s tender. It’s choosing to stay open when everything in you wants to shut down.

And now, when I look in the mirror, I don’t see someone who’s broken. I see someone who’s been broken open.

And that… that’s a different kind of strength altogether.

The Stillness That Saved Me

In the midst of all that noise and movement, there was stillness. Not the kind you plan, not some perfect morning routine. Just the honest kind. The kind that creeps in during the early hours before anyone else is awake. When the world is quiet and you remember how it feels to simply exist.

There were late nights too—when the house was still, everyone asleep, and I’d find myself just sitting there... thinking. Not ruminating, but reflecting. Asking myself how I could be better. Looking at the people I love, peaceful in their sleep, and feeling this rush of gratitude.

How lucky am I?

Not just to witness this life—but to be part of it. To be responsible for it. Not in a pressure-heavy kind of way, but in a sacred way. It’s not just about money or providing. It’s about showing up. About being present. Being dependable. Being the safe place, not just for others—but for myself too.

That responsibility, that privilege—of being present, of providing, of protecting—shapes everything I do. And I don’t do it alone.

My soulmate, my love, has been there through all of it. Not just beside me, but intertwined in the struggle, the growth, the healing. She doesn’t flinch when things get hard. She steps in. She holds steady. She reminds me of who I am when I forget. When the weight felt too heavy, when I questioned if I was doing enough, being enough, she didn’t try to fix it. She stood with me in it.

Her strength isn’t blaring, but it’s powerful. The kind of strength that holds the whole room together without needing to say a word. Her love doesn’t need to perform, it’s felt, deeply and consistently, in the way she shows up every day. In the way she listens, even when I don’t know how to speak what I’m feeling. In the way she holds space for me to be soft, to be unsure, to just be.

She’s my rock, the one I lean on when I feel like I might fall. She’s my mirror, reflecting back the parts of me I’m still learning to love. She’s my refuge, where I go when the world gets too intense, too heavy, too much.

Without her, I honestly don’t know how I would’ve made it through some of this year’s hardest moments. The pain, the pressure, the questions that kept me up at night, she was there for all of it. Not just as a witness, but as my anchor in the truest sense. She doesn’t just support me, she sees me. All of me. And in a world where being seen can feel rare, that kind of love is everything.

I hope she knows this. I hope she feels it, not just in what I do, but in what I say. In the quiet ways I try to return what she gives so effortlessly. I wouldn’t be who I am today without her. I wouldn’t be becoming without her.

Fatherhood: A Mirror and a Map

If becoming had a face, for me, it would be my child’s.

Because nothing in my life has held a mirror up to who I am quite like fatherhood. Parenting isn’t just about raising a child, it’s about being raised too. It’s about growing into the man I want to be, over and over again. Every question they ask, every tear they cry, every moment they look to me for safety or understanding or love—it all calls something forward in me. It all challenges me to be more. To be still. To be present. To be honest.

I never expected the depth of this. I knew love, but I didn’t know this kind of love. The kind that’s fierce and tender and terrifying all at once. The kind that doesn’t just live in your heart, it lives in your bones. My child reaches for me without hesitation, with eyes that trust me completely. And that kind of trust, it changes a man. It cracks you open in places you didn’t even know were closed. It makes you want to do better, to be better, not out of pressure, but out of love.

Even on the hardest days, when I’m tired, when I’m stretched thin, when I’m wrestling with my own thoughts or fears, they still look at me like I am their whole world. And that’s not something I take lightly. That look, that little hand in mine, the way their face lights up just because I walked into the room—it reminds me that I matter. That my presence matters. Not for what I can give or do, but just for being there. Fully there.

Fatherhood has taught me that love doesn't always have to be bold. It’s in the quiet moments, in the way I tuck them in at night, in the way I listen to the same story for the hundredth time, in the way I learn to hold space for their big emotions without trying to fix them. It’s in showing up consistently, especially when I feel like I have nothing left to give.

And I’ve messed up. I’ve raised my voice when I wish I hadn’t. I’ve missed moments I can’t get back. But I’ve also learned to say I’m sorry. To make room for grace. To let my child see that being a man doesn’t mean being perfect. It means being accountable. It means telling the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. It means being safe enough for someone else to fall apart and brave enough to stay with them in it.

I used to think I had to have all the answers. Now I know that being a father isn’t about having it all figured out. It’s about showing up anyway. Being willing to grow in front of them. Being willing to soften. Letting myself be shaped by their laughter, their honesty, their need for me to just be there. And in that, I’m not just raising a child, I’m raising myself too.

There’s something sacred in the everyday of it. In the spilled cereal and sleepy goodnights. In the tantrums and the giggles and the questions that stop me in my tracks. I’m learning to be still in those moments. To not rush past them. Because this is the becoming. Right here. In the middle of the mess. In the quiet hum of a life I never knew I needed, and now can’t imagine living without.

And maybe that’s the deepest truth I’ve found this year. That fatherhood, with all of its challenges and heartaches and beautiful chaos, hasn’t just changed me. It’s revealed me. I am still becoming, every day, and it’s through the eyes of my child that I see myself most clearly. Not as the man I was, not yet the man I hope to be, but the man they believe I already am.

And I’ll keep trying to live up to that. One breath, one moment, one day at a time.

The Slow Work of Becoming

This was a year of big moves. Literal ones. We packed up our life and relocated to a different state—a change that shook up everything familiar. New surroundings. New rhythms. New everything. There were shifts in work too, in identity, in what it means to feel steady. From the outside looking in, it probably seemed like a lot changed—and it did.

But there were no grand milestones. No big moments that signaled I’d “made it.” No boxes checked off some made-up timeline that society has us believing we need to follow.

And honestly, I’m learning that’s not how I count growth anymore.

Because the biggest shifts didn’t come with a finish line or applause. They came quietly—in the moments I chose not to spiral, in the way I softened when I wanted to shut down, in how I began to trust the ground underneath me even when it felt shaky. Yes, a lot changed around me. But even more changed within me.

There’s more than meets the eye. And I’m okay with that now. I’m okay with growth that isn’t always visible. With transformation that doesn’t scream for attention. I don’t need everything to be seen to know it’s real.

Because success, for me, looks different now. It looks like presence. Like showing up when it would’ve been easier to check out. Like taking care of my people. Like staying grounded while the ground moved beneath us. That’s what this year has been—messy and full and wildly human. Big shifts on the outside, yes, but even bigger ones within.

And even if the world doesn’t celebrate that kind of growth, I will. Quietly. Proudly. Because I know how hard-earned it was.

Gratitude That Runs Deep

Gratitude isn’t just something I scribble down in a journal anymore. It’s not a checklist. Not a trendy morning routine. It’s a lens I live through now. A muscle I stretch daily, not because life is always good, but because I know it can fall apart. Because I know what it’s like to feel like I’m barely holding it together.

Gratitude shows up differently these days.

It’s in the quiet hum of the house after everyone’s gone to bed, the silence that used to feel lonely but now feels sacred. It’s in the way my son curls into me at the end of the day, his breath slow and warm on my chest, his trust unspoken and total. It’s in the way my love reaches for my hand in the middle of a conversation or locks eyes with me when I’m spiraling and doesn’t try to fix it, just stays.

It’s in the songs that hit deeper when you’re in the thick of healing, when the lyrics feel like someone else cracked open your chest and put your story into melody. It’s in the way the light moves across the kitchen floor in the early morning, when no one’s awake yet and I get a moment to remember who I am. Not what I do. Not what I provide. Just… who I am.

It’s in the mundane moments, the ones that used to blur together. The spilled juice, the grocery runs, the back-and-forth of daily life. I used to chase the big stuff. Now I see how holy the small stuff is. The way my child says “I love you” without needing a reason. The way we laugh about nothing at the dinner table. The way I exhale when I realize I’m safe. That we’re safe. That for now, in this moment, everything is okay.

I’m not grateful because everything’s perfect. Far from it. I’m grateful because I’ve learned to live with imperfection and not let it harden me. Because I’ve felt what it’s like to hit emotional rock bottom and still find a way to rise—not polished, not triumphant, but real. Honest. Still breathing.

I’m grateful because I’ve watched myself show up on days I didn’t think I could. I’ve witnessed myself evolve—clumsily, slowly, painfully at times—but still, I evolved.

I’m grateful because the people who matter most are still here. My love, my steady, my rock, has been there through every version of me. She’s seen it all and stayed. Loved me in the in-between, when I didn’t even know what I needed. And my son, his presence reminds me why I keep trying. Why I want to be better. Not just for him, but because of him.

I’m grateful for the sleepless nights that reminded me I’m not invincible. For the moments I broke down, because they taught me that vulnerability is not weakness, it’s evidence I’m alive. That I care. That I love deeply.

And I’m still here.

Still showing up. Still trying. Still doing the quiet, unglamorous work of becoming someone I can be proud of.

Gratitude has changed me. It’s not something I chase. It’s something I notice—in the cracks, in the silence, in the places I used to overlook.

And that noticing? That presence?

That’s the most sacred thing I know.

Who I Am Now

So here I am. Another year older.

A little more experienced. A little more seasoned. And, yes there are things I didn’t notice before, and a heaviness that doesn't always lift, even after rest. But there’s also a steadiness and resiliency I’ve never known.

A deeper sense of who I am, and what really matters.

I’m not who I was last year. And I’m not yet who I’ll be a year from now. But I have to keep reminding myself that I’m becoming, not arriving.

Becoming slower to react and quicker to pause. Becoming the kind of man who doesn’t need to fill silence with noise. The kind of father who notices the small things, the way my son looks at me when he’s unsure, the way he reaches for my hand without thinking. Becoming someone who doesn’t just show up physically, but fully. Present. In tune. Experiencing!

I’m learning to be more honest, with myself first, which has always been the hardest. To admit when I’m not okay. To name the emotion before it turns into distance. To stop performing strength and start practicing it, the quiet kind that comes from knowing who you are beneath the surface.

I used to think peace would come when I had control. When everything lined up just right. But now I know peace comes from surrender. From letting go of the idea that I have to hold everything perfectly. It’s not found in the certainty, it’s found in the allowing.

The softening. The trust.

And love? It’s not a big performance. It’s not a highlight reel. It’s Ingrid, my soulmate, showing up for me, again and again, especially when I feel like a version of myself I barely recognize. It’s the quiet support. The gentle honesty. The safety of being seen fully and still held. I don’t know how I would’ve made it through this year without her. She’s my sounding board, my safe place, my mirror when I need one, and my anchor when I start to drift.

Success? That word has changed shape for me. It’s not about the outside anymore. It’s not the number of clients, the money, the praise, the productivity. Success is walking into my house after a long day and feeling the love and hearing the laughter. It's the long embrace and kiss from Ingrid where time seems to stand still for a brief moment. It's experiencing my son running towards me with a huge smile and open arms ready for a big hug. It’s making time to play on the floor. It’s building a life that feels like mine, not for the image, but for the feeling. For the alignment. For the love.

Right now, life isn’t perfect..and I know it never will be. It’s raw. It’s unpredictable. It’s beautifully unfinished. But it’s real. And that, more than anything else, feels like a kind of peace I never knew I was searching for.

This life, this version of me, feels earned. Not because I arrived anywhere, but because I finally stopped trying to.

Because somewhere along the way, I realized: I’m not here to arrive.

I’m here to become.

A Quiet Promise

As I step into this next year, I’m not chasing a polished version of myself. I’m not making a list of resolutions or setting goals to prove my worth. I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’ve done that before, measured my evolution by how much I could produce, achieve, or check off.

This year, it’s different. It has to be.

Instead, I’m making a quiet promise to myself. Not flashy. Not gaudy. Just honest.

A promise to keep becoming.

To keep softening where I once hardened.

To keep opening up, being vulnerable, being teachable, being receptive to feedback, even when I know that it would be easier to just shut down.

To keep loving deeply with all of my heart, unconditionally, even when it scares me.

To keep choosing presence and progress over perfection, even when perfection still whispers in my ear. I want to keep holding space, for myself, for the people I love, for the moments that don’t look like much on the outside but mean everything. I want to keep honoring the ones who show up for me, without conditions or expectations, just love, in its truest form.

Because this life? It’s not about arriving. It's never been about that, but that's what I always used as motivation or my definition of "success". Not anymore.

There’s no final version of me to get to. No finish line where everything makes perfect sense. That illusion, the one where I finally “arrive” and all the noise disappears, it’s just that. An illusion. A facade. And I can see that as clear as day now.

But, you know what's real? The becoming. The again and again and again of it.

The falling down and getting back up. The unlearning. The re-learning. The way I stretch and stumble and somehow still move forward. Because becoming isn’t linear. Neither is growth or healing. It’s messy and sacred and full of moments that look like nothing until you realize they were everything. To me, that's the beauty of life.

So, if you made it this far (thank you!), I'm sure you've gleaned that I’m not arriving this year.

I’m becoming.

Becoming more grounded. More awake. More willing to live in the in-between. More of my truest and highest self. Not just for me, but for the people in my life who also deserve someone who sees self work, self discovery, healing, and recovery as a vital ongoing, everyday, every moment process.

And right now, even in all the uncertainty, all the undone edges, I know one thing:

I’m exactly where I need to be.

Not because it’s all figured out.

But because I’m still here. Still trying. Still choosing to stay show up, no matter what.

And that’s enough.