There are nights when the echoes of who I used to be linger just long enough for me to notice their weight, like unexpectedly spotting your own reflection in a foggy window, distorted yet familiar. This is not an apotheosis. It is a necessary unraveling, a peeling back of layers that served their purpose once but no longer fit.
Each version of ourselves is a story with its own architecture, a skeleton that held us through particular seasons. I remember sitting with the quiet version of myself, the agreeable whisperer who read rooms and never rocked boats. That version knew the soft art of invisibility and wore it like a cloak, keeping my spirit enclosed while the world demanded to be navigated with polite precision.
I thought I needed to be clever with my stories, but I didn’t know cleverness was shadow play. When I discovered the potency of raw truth through building Mouthy, the old habits started to fret. I found myself obeying unspoken suggestions to make the narrative more palatable, less revealing, veiling my own voice with metaphors that only blurred the lens.
Change acts less like a climax and more like a slow, willing erosion. Growth felt like grief, because unraveling means losing the supportive structures you once leaned on for stability. Yet beneath the bewildering storm of transformation, there’s a profound clarity in recognizing the need to outgrow your own skin. To be in the hallway between the rooms of who you were and who you are becoming.
For anyone standing in that in-between world, remember, you are moving. Moving through a fog, yes, but crossing nonetheless. You don’t have to marry disdain for your past to embrace a new horizon. Acknowledge the miles your former self carried you; honor them while stepping onward.