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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Still Typing...

There’s a version of me that’s absolutely brilliant.

He lives about 12 hours in the future.

He has perfect comebacks. He knows exactly what to say in the moment. He speaks fluently in witty retorts, poetic truths, and emotionally balanced honesty.

Unfortunately, that guy never shows up on time.

Instead, I’m the person who nods during a conversation, walks away, eats dinner, goes to bed, stares at the ceiling—and then thinks,

“I should’ve said, ‘Well, not all who wander are lost, Greg.’”

But of course by then, Greg is long gone. And so is the moment.

Four Thirty-Seven PM

When the world pauses between intentions

The clock reads 4:37 PM on a Tuesday. An unremarkable time—not quite afternoon, not yet evening. Just a sliver of existence wedged between what you planned to accomplish today and what you've silently agreed to postpone until tomorrow.

The light comes in at that particular angle that only happens in late afternoon. Golden, patient, slightly tired. It catches the dust motes hanging in the air above my desk—tiny universes suspended in their own gravitational rules. I haven't dusted in weeks. The evidence floats, illuminated.

My coffee has reached that specific temperature where it's no longer hot enough to be satisfying but not yet cold enough to justify making a new cup. The mug sits in purgatory, half-empty. Or half-full, depending on which cliché you prefer at 4:37 PM on a Tuesday.

Outside, a school bus wheezes to a stop. I can't see it, but I know the sound. The hydraulic sigh, the momentary pause, the distant shouts of children suddenly released into the wild of their neighborhoods. Their day is ending. Mine sits in limbo.

My phone lights up with a notification, then dims again when I don't immediately reach for it. Technology has learned to mirror our attention spans—bright with urgency, then quietly surrendering to being ignored.

I notice my shoulders have been tensed for hours. When did that happen? I release them, and my body sinks an inch lower in my chair. How many moments of unnecessary tension do we carry through life, only releasing them when we happen to notice?

There's something holy about these threshold times. These in-between spaces where we're not actively becoming or achieving or pursuing. Just existing in the pause between chapters.

In Japan, they have a word for it: "Ma" (間)—the emptiness between structures that gives meaning to form. The silence between musical notes. The space that isn't empty but full of possibility.

Maybe that's what 4:37 PM on a Tuesday is. Not dead time. Not wasted time. But necessary time—the breath between sentences that makes meaning possible.

Tomorrow I'll make plans again. Set goals. Move forward. But for now, in this sliver of golden dust-filled light, I'll witness this moment for what it is: the world pausing between intentions.

And in that pause, I find myself. Complete.

—Everett

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Backwards Understood

Some things only make sense in reverse

 

There's a peculiar magic in watching a movie backwards. The shattered glass reforms. The diver rises from the pool. The tears slide up cheeks and back into eyes. 

I started thinking about this after finding old photographs in my parents' basement. Jumbled moments from decades past, with no particular order or explanation. At first, they seemed random—disconnected snapshots lacking context. But as I arranged them chronologically, a story emerged that could only be understood by working backwards.

Perhaps that's true of most meaningful things. 

We don't understand the importance of childhood until we've left it. We don't grasp the value of health until after illness. We can't fully appreciate someone's presence until we've felt their absence. The meaning reveals itself in retrospect.

Time is the ultimate unreliable narrator. It shows us events in sequence but hides their significance until later chapters. Like reading a mystery novel with the reveal on the last page that suddenly makes you see every previous scene differently.

The French philosopher Kierkegaard once observed that "Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards." We're perpetually caught in this tension—moving forward while making sense of things by looking back.

Sometimes I wonder if regret is just the cost of this backwards understanding. The price we pay for clarity that comes too late to change our actions but just in time to change our perspective.

I'm learning to embrace this backwards logic. To accept that some puzzles aren't meant to be solved in real-time. That sometimes, the most profound realizations arrive after the experience has ended, not during it.

Maybe wisdom itself is backwards understood—not something we accumulate steadily with age, but something that sneaks up on us in moments of reflection, showing us what we knew all along without knowing we knew it.

Next time you find yourself confused by the present, remember: some stories read better in reverse. Some journeys make sense only after they're complete. Some questions answer themselves, given enough time.

And sometimes, that's exactly as it should be.

—Everett

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The Drawer Knows Things

There is a drawer in my house I’ve opened at least three times a day for the past fifteen years, and I still have no idea what’s actually in it.

It’s not the junk drawer. That one’s upfront about its purpose. No shame. A flashlight with no batteries. Three expired AAA roadside cards. Four rubber bands that have fused into one unbreakable alliance. Junk drawers are honest. This drawer… this drawer is something else.

It lives just beneath the microwave. No label. No clear function. And yet, I open it—constantly. Looking for scissors. Looking for tape. Looking for something I’m not even sure exists but seems like it should be in a drawer.

It never has what I need. But it never disappoints either.

Inside, there’s a tape measure, three mechanical pencils with no lead, and an orphaned IKEA hex key that survived the purge of 2011. There’s a strange comfort in its mystery. Like it knows something about me I don’t.

And it probably does.

That drawer has seen every version of me: the 3 a.m. “where are the batteries” version, the “I swear I just bought tape” version, the “I’m going to organize this once and for all” version (that one lasted 14 minutes). It knows my patterns. My false starts. My hopeful moments of productivity.

It holds the evidence of things I thought I might one day need. Like a tiny archaeological site of my good intentions.

Sometimes I think we all have a drawer like that—internally, I mean. A cluttered little spot where we keep unfinished thoughts, misplaced confidence, or half-drawn plans.

Not broken. Just paused.

And maybe it’s okay not to empty it. Maybe it’s okay to have a few places—physical or otherwise—that stay a little jumbled. Because not everything we carry has to be fixed.

Some of it just needs a place to stay until we figure out what it means.

—Everett

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That Wasn’t in the Manual

There are a lot of things I’ve learned that weren’t in any manual.

How to hold your breath during someone else’s bad news. How to apologize without rushing it. How to act like you know what you’re doing long enough to actually figure it out.

None of those came with instructions. No labeled diagrams. No troubleshooting section in the back.

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Most of what’s saved me—emotionally, relationally, occasionally mechanically—was discovered through sheer cluelessness and caffeine. A raised eyebrow. A well-timed Google search. An awkward conversation I didn't want to have but knew I needed to. That’s the real curriculum.

Have you ever learned something essential only because everything else failed first?

There’s no user guide for how to get your tone right when you’re tired. No flowchart for which truth to tell when both are half-right. No neatly formatted guide for when to let go and when to dig in.

But here I am—held together by duct tape wisdom and the kind of life hacks you write on sticky notes after a long day. And somehow, I’m still learning.

It wasn’t in the manual. But it was still worth knowing.

—Everett

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Couch Cushion Confessions

There’s something oddly personal about what ends up between the couch cushions.

Loose change. A receipt for something you meant to return. That button you swore you lost at the laundromat. And, if you’re lucky, a pen that still works.

It’s not just clutter. It’s a quiet archive of ordinary moments that didn’t seem important at the time. Things we dropped without noticing. Things we meant to come back for. Things that slipped through while we were mid-conversation, mid-crisis, or mid-nap.

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I’ve found thoughts there too. Unfinished ones. The kind that settled while I wasn’t paying attention. A sentence I abandoned halfway through. A memory I tucked away until I had time to feel it.

Do you ever find yourself uncovering things you didn’t know you’d buried?

We think of “cleaning out the couch” as a chore. But sometimes, it feels more like sorting through a low-stakes time capsule. A reminder that even in stillness, even in soft places—we’re always dropping pieces of ourselves. And occasionally, when we dig just right, we find something worth keeping.

—Everett

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Forgot What I Was Looking For

I walked into the kitchen looking for something. Keys? A snack? That article I meant to finish reading?

I stood there, hand on the refrigerator handle, waiting for my memory to catch up. It didn’t.

This happens more than I’d like to admit. I start down a hallway, open a drawer, check my phone—and then forget why. I blame it on sleep, or too many tabs open in my brain. But the truth is, I’m often not looking for an object. I’m looking for a shift. A little reset. A reason to pause without feeling unproductive.

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Sometimes I do find the snack or the list or the charger I misplaced. But more often, I find something else: silence. Sunlight on the floor. The echo of a thought I didn’t realize I needed to finish. A tension I hadn’t noticed unclenching a little.

Have you ever paused in a room and realized you weren’t really looking for the thing—just for a reason to pause?

We think of forgetting as failure. A sign the mind is fraying. But I’m starting to see it differently. Maybe forgetting what I was looking for is just permission to notice what’s already here.

What did you find the last time you forgot what you were looking for?

I didn’t find what I went in for. But I left the room quieter than I entered it. And that counts for something.

—Everett

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Leaving The Window Open

I’ve never been great at knowing where to begin.

So I tend to start with a window.

I leave it cracked—just enough to let in the breeze, or a thought I hadn’t planned on, or the memory of something I was sure I forgot.

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That’s what this is.

This blog isn’t a manifesto. It’s not advice. It’s not even particularly well-organized. It’s just the sound of me thinking out loud, in real time, with the window open—hoping something drifts in that’s worth saving.

If you’ve ever circled the same thought more than once, or tried to explain a feeling with words that showed up late—this place might feel familiar.

The posts that follow won’t always have tidy endings. But I’ll try to keep them honest. And maybe a little warm.

—Everett