emberrisen

Tag: becoming

  • The Moment Before I Burst

    The Moment Before I Burst

    There are days when I can feel something pulsing under my ribs — a second heartbeat, a pressure that doesn’t belong to the old version of me. It isn’t rage in the dramatic sense. I’m not slamming doors or throwing anything. It’s quieter than that, stranger than that. It’s the feeling of being so full of emotion, memory, grief, and awakening that my body could split open like a cartoon character and scatter into a thousand pieces… only to reassemble larger than life.

    It’s anger, yes.
    But not the kind that destroys.
    It’s the kind that expands.

    For years, I lived inside a smaller outline of myself. I shrank without even noticing it. I missed moments I should have lived. I lost memories I should still be able to hold. I chose — for reasons I’m still unraveling — to stay home instead of being with friends, to silence parts of myself instead of exploring them, to dim gifts I didn’t believe I had permission to use.

    I didn’t realize how much of me had gone missing until I started coming back.

    And now that I’m awake to it, I’m angry.
    Angry at myself for disappearing.
    Angry at the dynamics that taught me shrinking was safer.
    Angry at the years that feel like blank pages where a life should have been written.

    But underneath that anger is something else — something alive, something pushing.

    It feels like shedding skin.
    Like the seams of my old self can’t hold the pressure of who I’m becoming.
    Like expansion is happening whether I feel ready or not.

    Sometimes I feel like I’m right on the edge of bursting out of myself. Not breaking down — breaking out. The version of me I was always meant to be is pressing against the inside of my ribs, trying to make space, trying to breathe. She’s not fully formed yet, but she’s undeniable. She glows at the edges. She’s impatient. She’s tired of waiting for permission.

    She wants to live.
    She wants to shine.
    She wants to take up the room she was told to surrender.

    And maybe this is what transformation actually feels like — not calm, not graceful, not tidy. Maybe it feels like pressure building, like seams pulling, like anger rising not to destroy but to clear the way. Maybe becoming yourself is less like blooming and more like erupting.

    I’m learning to let the eruption happen.
    I’m learning to stop shrinking.
    I’m learning to stop apologizing for the size of my becoming.

    I don’t know exactly who I’m becoming yet.
    But I can feel her.
    And she’s bigger than the fear.
    Bigger than the years.
    Bigger than the version of me that stayed small.

    She’s coming.
    And I’m finally letting her out.

    🎧 Listen to the companion song: Break Out of My Skin

    If any part of this met you where you are, I share more reflections by email.

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  • The Noise in the Dark

    The Noise in the Dark

    I’ve been writing a lot while sitting in the dark, waiting for my daughter to fall asleep. The dark gives me something I’ve historically avoided — time alone with my thoughts. Nothing to do but think. Some nights I hate it. The noise in my head gets loud: the things I have to do, the things I haven’t done, the things I could have done better. The things I want for myself. The disappointments I don’t always admit out loud.

    Lately the sheer volume of what I’m carrying has felt like too much — some wants, some musts, but all of them demanding something from me. And layered on top of that is the weight of single parenting. Some days that alone is enough to level me. On those nights, sitting in the dark, I cry because of how hard it is. And then my unkind brain whispers, “You did this to yourself. You could have stayed.”

    For a moment, I believe it. I beat myself up. But then I remember: when I wasn’t technically a single parent, I still was. I was doing everything. I was exhausted and resentful because there was another person there who should have helped carry the load and didn’t. I was alone in a different way.

    And then there’s the loneliness I feel now — the kind I didn’t expect. I had closed the door on wanting anyone. I convinced myself I didn’t need a partner, that I was better off alone. But lately I’ve found myself wanting someone who cares for me. Not someone to take care of me. Not someone to parent my daughter. Just someone who shows up. Someone who is a partner. And I know that anyone who would ever meet my daughter would have to earn that right slowly, intentionally. I’m not looking for help with parenting. I’m looking for connection.

    I’m also learning — through writing, through therapy, through lived experience — that my history and trauma have shaped how I show up in relationships, or whatever it’s called when you’re getting to know someone and everything is clicking but it’s not quite a relationship yet. My body reacts before my mind does. Old wiring doesn’t disappear just because I left the place where it formed. It started long before my marriage, which is probably part of how I ended up there. And now I’m having to consciously unlearn it. Rewire myself for something healthier. That alone could be a book, but for now I’ll just say: it adds to the noise in my head.

    Last week I sat down feeling inspired — ready to take steps toward becoming the person I want to be. I picked up my guitar. I danced. I thought about my faith, my writing, my health, my daughter. I wanted to be intentional, so I made a plan. I mapped out my days, time‑blocked, and was actually reasonable for once. I didn’t expect myself to do everything every day. That’s a big deal for me.

    It should have been simple: write the plan, follow the plan.

    But then I got sick. Not the kind of sick that knocks you out for a day — the kind that drags on when you’re a single parent because you don’t get to rest. Five days of exhaustion. Five days of feeling terrible. And now, a week later, I haven’t followed the plan once. Not one day.

    So tonight I feel sad. Discombobulated. Defeated.

    I don’t know how to make the noise stop. I don’t know how to carry all of this gracefully. I’m just trying to breathe. I’m going to try to sleep. And I’m praying that tomorrow I wake up feeling even a little bit lighter.

  • Living in the In‑Between

    Living in the In‑Between

    My mind is scattered tonight, drifting in a dozen directions at once. I keep feeling like I’m living in a strange in‑between — a quiet tension between the life I dream about and the life I’m actually living. It’s like everything I want is sitting just beyond an invisible wall. I can sense it. I can almost reach it. But I can’t quite cross over.

    There’s this constant pull inside me: I want so much, and I’m trying so hard, yet I still feel like I’m standing just shy of the doorway to the life I imagine. I wonder if I’m good enough, talented enough, disciplined enough — simply enough — to make it all real. I wonder this about almost everything. It’s like my mind keeps looping back to the same question: What if I’m not enough to become who I want to be?

    Lately, I’ve been tapping into my creative side more intentionally. Writing, making music, letting myself express things I’ve carried quietly for years. It’s been cathartic, grounding, and sometimes even deeply fulfilling. But I keep asking myself: to what end? The more I create, the more I want my creativity to matter — to touch someone, to shift something in them, to make a difference. But how would I ever know if it did? How does anyone know if their work reaches someone in the way they hoped?

    And then the questions start stacking.

    If I could just be more disciplined, more intentional, maybe everything I imagine would finally start taking shape. But can I sustain the discipline it takes to make an impact? And again — how would I ever know if I’m making one?

    Do I need to begin with the end in mind? If so, what is the end? If not, do I just start? And if I just start, am I wandering aimlessly? Am I building something real, or am I simply moving in circles?

    I feel like I have more questions than answers — maybe more questions than certainty. But maybe that’s part of the process. Maybe the answers aren’t things you stumble upon; maybe they’re things you grow into. Maybe the invisible wall isn’t a barrier at all, but a veil that thins as you keep going.

    Maybe the in‑between isn’t a failure or a flaw. Maybe it’s simply the place where becoming happens — the quiet, restless space where you learn to trust that the act of moving, creating, trying, questioning, is itself the path forward.