Becoming the best version of myself feels like an excavation, a slow and deliberate unearthing of layers, some thick with the sediment of past fears, others delicate as spider’s silk, spun with old dreams I barely remember. It’s as if I am peeling back the skin of an old wound, tender and raw, uncovering parts of myself that have been buried for years beneath the weight of expectations, regrets, and the unrelenting pulse of time. Each layer, each scrape of memory and hurt, is a revelation—a reminder that there are parts of me I have hidden even from myself.

I often find myself standing at the threshold of change, that familiar ache in my chest, a mix of longing and trepidation. It’s like staring into a mirror, but not the kind that reflects what is expected—the perfectly framed face, the outward appearance we show the world. No, this mirror shows the inner contours of my being, the places I have neglected, the shadows that linger behind my eyes. I see the person I am now, but just beyond the glass, blurred and waiting, is the person I might become, a version of me that is whole, unbroken.

To reach for that self, to attempt to step into that shadowy reflection, is a constant struggle. It’s a process of untangling, of sorting through the knots of old narratives that tell me I am not enough. They cling to my skin like brambles, whispering doubts into the quiet hours of the night. But there is a part of me that refuses to believe in those stories anymore, that aches for something more—to see myself as a canvas not yet complete, but filled with potential, with space for light to break through the dark patches.

In this process, I find myself dismantling the scaffolding that I have built around my heart, piece by piece. I must unlearn the habit of harsh self-judgment, of looking at my reflection through a cracked lens. I learn to cradle my flaws like fragile things, to speak to myself with the softness I reserve for others, as if to say: *It’s okay, you are growing.* There is a painful tenderness in this undoing, but it is a necessary pain, a purging of all that holds me back.

And still, it is not a straight path. It is a winding road that loops back on itself, filled with moments of frustration, of wanting to give up. Some days I feel closer to that best version of myself, as if I could almost touch her, could feel her laughter in the back of my mind, as if she’s cheering me on from just out of reach. But other days, the distance between us feels infinite, a chasm that echoes with every failure and misstep. I stumble, I fall back into old patterns, into the comfort of self-doubt and fear, as if slipping into an old, threadbare coat.

Yet even in the stumbles, in the backsliding, there is progress. I am learning to accept the ebb and flow, to understand that becoming isn’t a single moment of transformation but a series of small, quiet decisions. A decision to rise again after I have fallen. A decision to forgive myself when I don’t meet my own impossible standards. A decision to open myself to possibility, to the chance that I could become something more than the sum of my scars.

I think of it as learning to breathe again. To draw air into lungs that have grown accustomed to shallow, fearful breaths, to inhale deeply and exhale the doubt that has clung to my bones for so long. It is like the first breath after being underwater, gasping, desperate, but so alive. And in these moments, I catch glimpses of that better self—she is in the strength I find in my own resilience, in the way I refuse to be defined by my mistakes, in the way I begin to see the world not through the lens of what is lacking but through what might yet be possible.

To become the best version of myself is to live in this tension—between who I have been and who I could be. It is to dwell in the discomfort, to welcome it like an old friend, because I know it is through discomfort that I am carved into something new. And as I continue, step by faltering step, I realize that perhaps the best version of myself is not a final destination, but a constant unfolding, a lifelong commitment to growth, to becoming. It is the act of showing up for myself, time and time again, even when the world outside is unyielding, even when the darkness presses in.

And so, I walk this path, sometimes stumbling, sometimes soaring, but always moving forward, my heart beating with the hope that this journey, this painful, beautiful process of becoming, is worth every uncertain step.