In 2025, after months of living in a deep depression, I found myself praying one day and thinking about the woman I wanted to be.

I thought about her life. The way she moved through the world. How she woke up with purpose. How she was genuinely happy to be alive. I thought about the meaning her life carried, and somewhere in that prayer, I had to face something that hurt more than I expected.

I wasn’t her anymore.

Coming to terms with that was painful in a way I didn’t know how to name at the time. It wasn’t just sadness. It was grief. Grief for a version of myself I no longer recognized. Grief for the distance between who I was and who I knew I could be.

After asking God to lift the heaviness, the numbness, and the feeling of being completely stuck, I slowly began doing the unglamorous work of getting help. I went to therapy. I started praying again, not perfectly and not consistently at first, but honestly. Little by little, I began to feel like I could breathe again.

But the grief didn’t disappear.

What I was really grieving was time.

Two years of my life had passed, and I felt like I had nothing to show for it. I wasn’t closer to the woman I imagined. I was further away than I had ever been. That realization was crushing.

I grieved the version of me who used to light up a room when she walked in.
The version who loved herself deeply, whose confidence didn’t shrink based on other people’s opinions.
The version of me who believed in herself without hesitation.

I grieved the life I thought I would have by now. Being settled in my career. Being financially stable. Building my own family. Feeling secure in where I was headed.

I grieved the certainty I used to have, the clarity I once trusted.

And I grieved all of this mostly alone, with God.

I had support. My therapist helped me name what I was feeling. My best friend was there for me. Even then, there were things I couldn’t bring myself to say out loud. I felt ashamed. I felt embarrassed. I didn’t think anyone could truly understand how deep the disappointment ran.

When I started thinking about how to get unstuck, the doubts came quickly.

Had I been “out of the game” for too long?
Did I still have it in me?
Could I still be the woman who made things happen, the one who chased her dreams with fire, passion, and conviction?

I compared myself constantly. I looked at my peers, their progress, their milestones, their lives, and then I looked at mine and thought, what have I done?

That feeling, like you’ve ruined your own life, is one I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

As the year came to an end, the pressure intensified. My birthday was approaching, and birthdays have always made me reflective. Sometimes too reflective. I’m harder on myself during that time. All the questions came rushing in at once. Am I where I thought I’d be? Did I waste this year, too?

The idea of everyone watching me start over felt paralyzing.

When I first thought about creating Her Season of Becoming, I wanted to rush it. I just wanted to do something, anything, so I wouldn’t feel like another year slipped through my fingers. I wanted proof that I was still standing, still capable, still becoming.

But God slowed me down.

Instead of forcing myself into another version of productivity, I stopped trying to become someone new and focused on healing who I already was. That’s when rebuilding actually became possible.

I stopped trying to perform strength and started doing the quiet work. Stabilizing my emotions. Tending to my mental health. Rebuilding structure in my life. Simple routines. Skincare. Prayer. Church online when I couldn’t go in person. Reading my Bible. Creating rhythm where chaos once lived.

And slowly, I realized something important.

No one really talks about this part of starting over. The grief. The shame. The loneliness. Maybe that’s why it feels so isolating. Maybe that’s why so many of us think we’re the only ones going through it.

If you’re grieving a version of yourself, a lost timeline, or a life you thought you’d have by now, you’re not weak. You’re human. And you’re not behind. You’re in transition.

You don’t have to rush your healing to prove anything. You don’t have to have it all figured out to begin again. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is slow down, tell the truth, and rebuild gently.

This is what becoming actually looks like, before the glow, before the clarity, before the confidence returns.

And maybe this is the part we all have to accept.

Becoming isn’t a glow-up. It’s a reckoning.

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