Have you ever smiled through a day while quietly breaking inside?
You showed up. You replied to emails. You even laughed at that one coworker’s joke.
But under the surface, you were unraveling.
Not because you’re weak—
But because life hit you harder than anyone knows.
And somehow, you kept going.
This isn’t a glow-up.
This is a survival story.
Let’s get brutally honest.
Some pain doesn’t make sense.
There’s no inspirational quote big enough to make it okay.
No gratitude journal that can rewrite the moment your world fell apart.
Maybe it was the phone call that changed everything.
The silence after someone you loved walked away.
Or waking up to a life that no longer feels like yours.
Whatever it was—you didn’t choose it.
But now you’re here, standing in the rubble, trying to make sense of what’s left.
The Truth? Becoming Isn’t Beautiful.
Becoming is not a sunrise yoga session and a green smoothie.
It’s crying in the shower so no one hears you.
It’s showing up to work the day after a funeral.
It’s texting “I’m okay” when you’re absolutely not.
They call it a glow-up.
But let’s not lie to ourselves.
The real transformation happens in the dark.
Let me tell you a story.
A woman I once knew lost everything within a year.
Her father passed.
She had to leave a toxic relationship.
Then she lost her job—all within nine months.
She used to be the kind of person who planned everything.
Color-coded calendars. Meal prep Sundays. Gym at 6am.
But now?
Some days she couldn’t even get out of bed.
And yet—every morning, she opened her eyes.
Maybe she didn’t leap into her day, but she kept waking up.
And that, in itself, was a quiet act of defiance.
I asked her one day, “How did you survive all of that?”
She shrugged and said,
“I didn’t know I had a choice.”
That’s the power we never talk about.
The quiet, unseen resilience of just not giving up.
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Maybe You’re Her Right Now.
Maybe you’re holding on by a thread, wondering how you’re still standing.
If no one’s said this to you recently, hear me now:
You are doing so much better than you think.
No, you’re not “thriving.”
You’re surviving.
And honestly? That counts.
What If This Isn’t the Breakdown?
What if it’s the break-through?
What if all this chaos…
All this loss…
All this discomfort you didn’t ask for…
Is the soil?
And the next version of you—the one who knows her worth, the one who doesn’t settle, the one who speaks without shrinking—
is quietly pushing through the cracks?
Everyone Talks About “Healing.”
But they rarely mention how lonely it feels.
How some people stop calling.
How you start questioning your value.
How one minute you’re proud of how far you’ve come…
And the next you’re sobbing in your car in the grocery store parking lot.
You’re not crazy. You’re not overreacting.
You’re becoming.
That’s messy work.
Here's What They Don’t Tell You:
- You will outgrow people who once felt like home.
- You will mourn a version of you who didn’t make it through the fire.
- You will learn how to be alone without feeling lonely.
- And you will rise—quietly, without applause, stronger than you’ve ever been.
But There’s One Catch…
You have to let go of who you used to be.
You can’t stay stuck waiting to feel like the old you.
Because she’s gone.
And she left behind a map—written in tears, grief, and rage—
To guide you to someone even stronger.
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What Comes Next?
Not a perfect 5-year plan.
Just this:
Breathe.
Feel what you’ve been running from.
And take the next small step.
Whatever that looks like for you today—
Getting out of bed.
Saying no.
Letting go of someone who keeps breaking your heart.
Asking for help.
Drinking a glass of water.
Start there.
No One Sees the Fight You’re In.
But I do.
And I want you to remember this:
You are not behind. You are not broken.
You are becoming.
You’re in the middle of the hardest part.
And soon, this version of you—the one crawling through the fire—
Will look back and say:
“That was the moment I met my true self.”
Final Words…
This isn’t your glow-up season.
This is your grit season.
Your “keep breathing” season.
Your “trust the damn process” season.
Don’t dress it up.
Don’t apologize for it.
Live it.
Let it shape you.
And someday, when someone asks how you did it—
You’ll smile and say:
“I didn’t glow up.
I survived.”
And that will be enough.
P.S.
One day, someone will sit across from you, hurting the way you’re hurting now.
And you’ll say something that sounds small to you—but will mean the world to them.
You’ll give them hope.
Because you walked through hell… and made it out with your heart still beating.
That’s not weakness.
That’s your superpower.
Hold on.
You’re becoming.