Becoming: Finding Yourself in Life's Unwritten Chapters

Becoming: Finding Yourself in Life's Unwritten Chapters

This one’s personal. For those in the middle of a chapter that doesn’t make sense yet—I see you.

I remember standing alone in my kitchen at 3 AM, staring at the email that had just shattered my five-year career plan. The words "position eliminated" glowed on my phone screen, casting harsh light on the life I thought I knew. In that moment, between the tick of the wall clock and my uneven breath, I felt myself coming undone.

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Chapter One: The Narrative We Live

Life, like a story, contains a whole—with a beginning, middle, and end. That thought can be oddly comforting when you find yourself lost in what feels like an endless middle, unsure if the plot is moving forward at all. The pen remains in your hand, even when the page seems blank.

We all embody stories. The lawyer weaves facts into narrative, transforming cold evidence into human motivation. The teacher shapes knowledge into lessons that echo years later in unexpected moments. Even in silence, stories wait to be discovered between the lines. Our very identities are narratives we construct and revise daily—editing as we go, sometimes reluctantly deleting entire chapters we once thought essential.

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Chapter Two: Plot Twists and Turning Points

Every compelling story needs its hooks and turns—those moments when everything changes.

The diagnosis delivered in a sterile room, the smell of antiseptic hanging in the air as your future rearranges itself around new limitations and possibilities.

The phone call that shatters the quiet of an ordinary Tuesday morning, a voice trembling on the other end, forever dividing your life into before and after.

The betrayal revealed in a text message, read and reread until the words blur, each syllable a small laceration to your trust.

The birth announcement that arrives with the scent of new possibilities, tiny fingers grasping at a future you can only imagine.

These moments force us to pause, to question the outline we thought we knew. The plot thickens. The character—you—must adapt. You find yourself at what storytellers call the inciting incident: the point of no return.

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Chapter Three: When the Narrative Breaks

Sometimes the story takes a turn so sharp it feels like the book itself has been torn in half. Control slips through trembling fingers. The narrative you've crafted so carefully unravels like a sweater caught on a nail.

Grief does that. It doesn’t politely request entry—it breaks down the door and rearranges your furniture. It doesn’t just change the story; it changes the storyteller.

I remember my friend describing the aftermath of losing her mother: "I keep waiting to feel normal again, but I'm starting to think that person is gone. Whoever I am now is someone else entirely." Her words carried the weight of someone discovering they’ve become a character in a different genre altogether.

The broken narrative leaves you standing in the wreckage, picking up fragments of who you used to be, wondering if they can ever form a whole again. You find yourself in an unfamiliar chapter, the previous plot points suddenly feeling like they belonged to someone else’s story.

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Chapter Four: The Messy Middle

Here is where most stories linger—not in triumph, not in despair, but somewhere in between. The messy middle where hope and doubt take turns at the wheel.

We crave narrative symmetry: the perfect arc, the satisfying resolution, the lesson wrapped in a bow. But life stubbornly refuses such neatness. It sprawls and meanders, doubles back on itself, introduces characters who leave without explanation, presents conflicts that never fully resolve.

Pain doesn’t always reveal its purpose. Loss doesn’t always transform into wisdom. Sometimes it just leaves an empty space where something precious used to be—the hollow echo of what was.

I once sat with an elderly man who had lost his wife of sixty years. "Everyone keeps telling me it gets better," he said, his eyes fixed on the distance. "But maybe it just gets different. And I'm learning to live with different."

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Chapter Five: Transitional, Not Terminal

When the path disappears beneath your feet, remember the caterpillar.

Suspended in the darkness of its chrysalis, it literally dissolves—its body undone, its identity liquified—before reforming into something entirely new. The process looks like destruction. Like ending. But it's becoming.

Or the forest after fire. The blackened landscape appears lifeless, but beneath the ash, seeds that required intense heat begin to stir. Life returns—not as repetition, but as reinvention.

What if our darkest chapters aren’t conclusions but transformations? What if what feels like an ending is actually a doorway?

I think of the Japanese art of kintsugi, where broken pottery is mended with gold. The philosophy behind it suggests that breakage and repair are part of the object’s story—not something to hide, but something to honor. What if our lives work the same way?

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Chapter Six: The Art of Becoming

"What is to become of me?" we ask in moments of despair. The question itself holds the answer: becoming.

To become is to accept that we are never finished, never static. We are always in process, always mid-transformation. The story continues to unfold.

We can be both changed and intact simultaneously. Like a broken bone that heals stronger at the fracture point. Like gold veining its way through the cracks. The damage doesn’t disqualify us—it defines us.

Perhaps this is the secret: to realize that life is not a tidy narrative but a living one. That the ink is never dry. That even in our losses, we are not lost. We are becoming.

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 Becoming

A poem

When change arrives with swift surprise,  

Remember how the morning glows,  

How winter yields to spring's warm touch,  

How every river finds and flows.

We're measured not by where we break,  

But by the strength with which we mend.  

The mighty oak endures the storm  

And learns with every wind to bend.

Each ending births a fresh begin—  

A chance to shed what holds no worth.  

The butterfly must leave behind  

Its shelter for its second birth.

So welcome shifts that rearrange,  

Embrace the path that’s yet unknown.  

What seems like loss may be the step  

That leads to heights you've never known.

 

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Today, four years after that email changed everything, I stood in a different kitchen, in a different city, living a life I couldn’t have imagined that night. The broken story had become a different one—not better or worse, but different. And in that difference, I found that I too had become something new. Not despite the breaking, but because of it.

The morning light streamed through the window, catching on the small golden scars where life had broken me open. And for the first time in a long time, they looked beautiful.

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—Everett Crane

Observe the ordinary, then gently press into what it reveals.

Remember When

Remember when we measured time in seasons, not seconds? When summer stretched like taffy, endless and golden, each day a universe unto itself. When fall wasn't a pumpkin-spice marketing campaign but the earthy scent of leaves returning to soil, the satisfying crunch beneath our shoes, the early darkness that drew us home.

Remember when waiting was just part of life? When letters took weeks to arrive, each one a treasure of handwriting and paper choice and the faint scent of whoever sent it. When photographs remained unseen until developed, sometimes revealing a thumb over the lens or closed eyes, imperfections we cherished rather than deleted.

Remember when we got lost? Really lost—before GPS told us exactly where to turn, before our phones mapped the fastest route. When getting somewhere new meant unfolding a paper map across the dashboard, arguing over the best way, sometimes pulling into gas stations to ask directions from strangers who drew lines on your map and told you about the diner you shouldn't miss while you're in town.

Remember when we made plans and kept them? When "I'll meet you at the movie theater at 7" meant you'd better be there at 7 because there was no way to text "running late." When you stood in the designated spot, scanning faces, the anticipation of seeing someone building with each passing minute.

Remember when we listened to entire albums? When music wasn't algorithmic but intentional—artists arranging songs in a specific order, creating an experience that built from the first note to the last. When we knew which song came next before it began, the familiar click or subtle static between tracks a pause for breath.

Remember when we were unreachable? When leaving the house meant being truly away, unaccountable for hours at a time. When workdays ended when you left the building. When vacation meant notifying people in advance that you'd be unavailable, and no one expected otherwise.

Remember when boredom was productive? When having nothing to do meant staring at clouds until they formed shapes, inventing games with whatever was at hand, following ants to see where they were going. When empty time wasn't filled immediately but allowed to remain empty until something interesting grew from the void.

Remember when we remembered? When phone numbers of friends lived in our minds, when birthdays were known by heart rather than prompted by notifications, when we navigated familiar streets using mental maps built over years.

I'm not suggesting everything was better then. It wasn't. But there's something worth preserving in the rhythms of an analog life—the patience, the presence, the deliberate attention.

Perhaps what I miss isn't the past itself but the fullness with which we experienced it, unmediated by screens and algorithms, each moment demanding to be lived completely before it slipped away.

—Everett

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The Convenience Trap

The other day I ordered groceries from my phone while brushing my teeth. A few swipes, a saved list, tap to confirm. The food arrived on my doorstep two hours later, and I barely remembered ordering it.

We call this progress. We call this convenience.

But I wonder—when did ease become the ultimate goal?

We’ve built a world designed to eliminate friction. One-click checkout. Predictive text. Same-day shipping. Skip the line. Save time. Auto-fill. Auto-play. Auto-pilot.

Everything is faster, simpler, more efficient—and somehow we feel more behind than ever.

Convenience promises us time, but rarely gives us presence.

Because here’s the quiet truth: removing effort doesn’t always add meaning. Sometimes it removes the very thing that makes an experience worth having.

We don’t remember the things that came easy. We remember the things we wrestled for. The meal we made from scratch. The letter we wrote by hand. The garden we planted that made us wait.

The more steps something takes, the more space it gives us to be human.

I’m not against efficiency. I’m grateful for technology. But I’ve started to notice how often I chase convenience out of habit, not need. I’ll pay extra to skip the process, skip the moment, skip the waiting—only to wonder why everything feels a little thinner.

We’ve made life smoother, but have we made it fuller?

Convenience has become a kind of virtue. If something is hard, we assume it's broken. If something takes time, we assume it’s outdated. If something requires us to be patient, we assume it’s inefficient.

But maybe friction isn’t failure. Maybe effort isn’t a flaw. Maybe some things are meant to be a little difficult—not to punish us, but to shape us.

Convenience removes the mountain. Meaning is often found in the climb.

I think of my grandmother sewing clothes without a pattern, her fingers worn and steady. Of my father fixing the same lawnmower engine year after year instead of replacing it. Of friends who bake bread not because it’s faster—but because it’s real.

None of it was convenient. All of it was meaningful.

We keep optimizing our lives, but for what? What are we saving all this time for, and why does it still feel like we never have enough?

Maybe we’re not meant to skip the process. Maybe the process is the point.

So yes, I’ll still order groceries. I’ll still be grateful for maps and timers and online forms. But I’ll also take the long way home sometimes. I’ll let the soup simmer a little longer. I’ll walk instead of scroll. I’ll lean into the spaces that take more effort but leave more memory.

Because the easiest way isn’t always the most human one.

And I don’t want to miss the life inside the effort.

—Everett

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What Do We Actually Need to Remember?

Have you ever walked into a room and forgotten why you’re there? It’s a frustrating but universal experience—our memories abandoning us in an instant.

But why does this happen so often? Is it because our minds are failing us, or because we’re overloaded with information never meant to be carried—like trying to hold water in our hands?

When did we start expecting ourselves to remember everything? Think back to our ancestors—they remembered what kept them alive: which plants were poisonous, how to find water, how to return home. They didn’t need to remember appointment times, passwords, or the names of everyone at last month’s networking event.

How many tabs are open right now—on your screen and in your mind? Maybe forgetfulness isn’t a glitch, but a feature—our brain quietly closing the tabs that don’t serve us.

What if forgetting is actually a gift? A reminder that we weren’t designed to hold everything, to be everything, to remember everything.

What would happen if we stopped fighting against our nature and instead designed our lives around what our minds do best? What if we created systems for the things we struggle to remember and saved our mental energy for what truly matters?

What memories are you actually grateful for? Not your passwords or your to-do list, but the smell of your grandmother’s kitchen, the sound of your child’s laughter, the feeling of accomplishment after finishing something difficult.

In a world that demands we remember everything, what would it mean to intentionally choose what we carry?

Maybe the point wasn’t to remember why we walked in, but to remember what really matters once we’re there.

—Everett

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Coffee Ring Journals

There’s a notebook on my desk with a coffee ring on the cover.

Not a bold one—just a faint outline where the mug once sat too long.

I meant to wipe it off. I didn’t.

Now it’s just… part of the notebook. A quiet emblem of real life unfolding.

The pages inside are cluttered with half-thoughts, reminders, and the occasional idea worth circling. It’s messy. Random. Honest. The kind of notebook you reach for out of habit, not inspiration.

But that stain—it keeps catching my eye.

It’s proof I was there. That something happened while I was mid-thought, mid-sip, mid-whatever. Not during a highlight, but in the blur of everyday rhythm.

The Great Migration of Pens

Where do they all go, and what are they trying to tell us?

Remember when you bought that 12-pack of black pens? The ones you were absolutely certain would last you through the year?

Three weeks later, you can find exactly one of them. It's hiding in the side pocket of a bag you rarely use, and it only works if you scribble aggressively on a scrap paper for 30 seconds first, coaxing the ink back to life like a reluctant conversation at a high school reunion.

We've all lived this peculiar phenomenon: the mysterious disappearance of pens. They vanish from desks, kitchen drawers, and jacket pockets—embarking on some secret pilgrimage to a destination none of us will ever discover.

"I just had it a minute ago," we mutter, patting pockets and rifling through papers. The pen was literally just in our hand, and now it's gone, leaving not even the faintest trail of ink to follow.

When I was a child, I was convinced there must be a hidden realm where all missing pens gathered—a place filled with single socks, hair ties, and guitar picks that slipped through the cracks of our reality. Now, I wonder if the migration of pens is trying to teach us something more significant.

Pens are temporary visitors in our lives. They move among us, serving their purpose of transferring thoughts from mind to matter, and then they depart—often without a proper goodbye. Their impermanence mirrors so many other fleeting things: ideas that flash brilliantly then fade, conversations that linger in the air then dissipate, people who enter our story for a chapter or two before turning to a different page.

Perhaps the disappearing pen is nature's small reminder that nothing stays. That we must use what we have while we have it. That being held too tightly often leads to slipping away faster.

The next time you find yourself searching for that pen you just had, pause for a moment. Consider that maybe—just maybe—it's not lost but rather continuing its journey elsewhere. And maybe its absence is actually a tiny gift: a chance to reach for something new, to make different marks, to begin again.

After all, isn't that what we're all doing? Moving through others' lives, leaving small traces of ourselves behind, and hoping that our brief presence mattered?

—Everett

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What's Actually Urgent?

The difference between what shouts and what matters

What's actually urgent in your life right now?

Not what feels urgent. Not what's labeled urgent. Not what someone else has convinced you is urgent. But genuinely, truly urgent.

I asked myself this question around 2 in the morning while staring at my phone, reading work emails marked "URGENT" that had arrived hours earlier. My thumb hovered over the reply button as my eyes burned from the blue light. The house was silent. And somewhere in that moment of late-night digital anxiety, a more interesting question emerged:

Why does urgency always feel like it belongs to someone else?

We live in an era where everything demands immediate attention. Apps ping. Inboxes flash. Headlines scream. Each notification carries the implicit message: "Drop what you're doing. This cannot wait." But whose timeline are we actually operating on? And what happens to the quiet, important things that never announce themselves as urgent at all?

When was the last time you received a notification that said: "Your mental health needs attention right now" or "This relationship requires your presence immediately" or "The small joys of your day are waiting to be noticed"?

The truly essential rarely comes with flashing lights and capital letters. It whispers. It waits. It exists in the spaces between our reactions to what feels urgent.

So perhaps the better question isn't "what's urgent?"—but rather, "what's important that isn't shouting at me?"

How would your attention change if you responded to importance rather than urgency? What would rise to the surface if you let the manufactured emergencies settle?

I've started to wonder if urgency itself might be the modern addiction we're least willing to acknowledge. The rush of responding immediately. The dopamine hit of clearing notifications. The strange satisfaction of putting out fires—even ones we could have prevented with slower, more deliberate attention.

What if we measured success not by how quickly we respond, but by how wisely we choose what deserves our response in the first place?

I don't have perfect answers to these questions. But I've started experimenting with letting some urgent things remain unaddressed while I attend to important things that would never demand my attention. And in that inversion, I've found a different kind of aliveness—one that operates on human time rather than digital time.

What version of yourself might emerge if you stopped organizing your life around what seems most urgent?

That might be the most important question of all.

—Everett

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