No one talks about the grief that comes with growth.
The way it ambushes you quietly.
In the in-between.
In the moment you finally exhale, only to feel the ache of everything you had to let go to get here.
We speak of healing like it’s light.
Like it’s glitter and new chapters and empowered reels.
But healing, real healing, often begins as heartbreak.
Not from others, but from ourselves.
From the mask we mastered.
From the identity we perfected.
From the self we built when we thought we had no other choice.
I built her out of necessity.
She was strategic.
She was composed.
She was palatable.
She knew how to play the part of “capable”, even when her soul was collapsing.
She knew how to smile when she wanted to scream.
How to say “I’m fine” when she was drowning.
How to succeed while secretly starving for softness.
She was the one who made sure I belonged.
The one who sacrificed authenticity for approval.
The one who danced for crumbs, and called it love.
And for a while,
she kept me alive.
But I couldn’t become who I truly am…
until I laid her to rest.
Not with shame.
But with ceremony.
She didn’t deserve mockery.
She deserved reverence.
She was the one who stayed up late editing her edges to be accepted.
Who calculated her every move so she wouldn’t lose her place.
Who carried the weight of “I’m too much” in silence.
She was holy.
But she was never home.
Grief isn’t just for death
It’s for disillusionment.
It’s the moment you realize you’ve outgrown the self you spent decades building.
It’s the quiet fury of waking up to your own disappearance.
It’s the bittersweet ache of releasing someone who helped you survive,
but who cannot come with you into the life you’re now choosing.
And that…
is sacred grief.
The kind that splits you open so you can finally meet yourself.
I didn’t “become” the woman I am now.
I remembered her.
She was always there,
beneath the striving.
Beneath the smile that cost too much.
Beneath the urge to prove, to perform, to perfect.
And one day, I stopped negotiating my worth.
I stopped twisting myself into someone digestible.
I stopped apologizing for my softness, my truth, my frequency.
And in her place, I met:
- A woman who moves with reverence, not rush.
- A woman who listens to her longing like it’s scripture.
- A woman who creates without asking permission, and rests without guilt.
You don’t need to hate who you were.
You just need to stop pretending you’re still her.
Let her go.
Not because she failed,
but because she fulfilled her assignment.
She carried you as far as she could.
She did the best she knew how.
She made it through the fire.
But now?
Now it’s your turn.
To rise.
To reclaim.
To return, not to what the world wanted you to be,
but to the woman who was never lost… only hidden.
Let This Be Your Funeral Moment
Not a funeral of shame, but of sovereignty.
Wrap her in silk.
Thank her for her service.
Place a flower on her grave.
And then: crown yourself.
Because the woman you’re becoming?
She doesn’t need to hustle for belonging.
She knows she belongs to herself.