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We often talk about growth like it’s something that happens in therapy, in books, or in conversations with ourselves. But sometimes, it happens when you pack your things, leave behind everything you thought you were, and land in a place where no one knows your name.
By Irfan Aliabout a year ago in Humans
We live in a world obsessed with direction. With goals, timelines, five-year plans, and clearly marked paths. We’re taught from an early age to know where we’re going. To have answers. To be decisive, strategic, and on track.
For years, I was told I was “just going through a phase.” When I shifted my beliefs, changed my lifestyle, cut my hair, set boundaries, walked away from certain people—I was met with eye rolls, concern, and the ever-dismissive, “You’ll come back around. This is just a phase.”
We spend so much of our lives becoming. Becoming who we’re told we should be. Becoming what’s applauded, rewarded, or expected.
We often celebrate the parts of ourselves that arrived—the achievements, the growth, the glow-up after the storm. But what about the versions of us who didn’t make it? The selves who held big dreams that didn’t unfold, who gave their all and still fell short, who stayed hopeful until they couldn’t anymore?
We all have dreams—visions of success, happiness, and fulfillment that light up our minds like guiding stars. Sometimes, those dreams come true, or at least appear to on the outside. But what happens when the “dream” you’ve chased becomes a cage? When the life everyone else envies no longer feels like your own?
Choosing yourself is often celebrated as the ultimate act of bravery and self-care. It’s a mantra repeated in wellness circles and social media posts: “Put yourself first.” “Choose you.” “Love yourself unconditionally.” But the truth behind those words is far more complex and often messy.
Not every miracle comes with fireworks. Not every sacred moment arrives dressed in grandeur. Some of the most profound moments in life don’t shout—they whisper.
For most of my life, I thought spiritual growth would feel like rising steps—orderly, upward, predictable. Like leveling up.
We live in a culture that glorifies momentum. Go faster. Do more. Keep climbing. Rest? That’s for when you’ve earned it. Pauses? Those are seen as setbacks.
For a long time, I was afraid of silence. It made me uncomfortable—anxious, even. It felt like a void I needed to fill with sound, words, distractions, or movement.
There’s something we rarely talk about in a world obsessed with progress: The moments in-between. Not the big milestones. Not the thrilling beginnings or dramatic endings.
