Dear Friend,
I thought by now I’d have more figured out.
Maybe you did, too.
For a long time, I believed success was measured by milestones like how far I’d gone, how much I’d earned, how many people could see that I’d “made it.”
Wherever made it even meant.
I thought by 22, I’d have my dream job.
A version of myself that never second-guessed.
Maybe even a place that felt like home.
But when life didn’t match the picture I painted, I started to feel like I’d failed.
What I’ve learned, slowly, painfully, and with a lot of resistance, is that the timeline we build in our heads isn’t always the one life follows.
And that doesn’t mean we’re behind.
It just means we’re human.
There’s something quietly heartbreaking about grieving the version of you that never came to be.
The girl who was supposed to be more confident by now.
The friend who never dropped the ball.
The person who always knew what they wanted.
I miss her sometimes.
But she was built from expectations, not truth.
And the truth is: I am still becoming.
I’m becoming the kind of person who lets go a little more easily.
Who can sit in the unknown without needing every answer.
Who trusts the detours.
Who doesn’t rush purpose or force healing.
It takes strength to release who you thought you’d be.
But it also takes grace.
And that’s something I’m learning to give myself, not just when I get it right, but when I’m standing knee-deep in uncertainty, wondering what’s next.
Because the person I’m becoming is softer. Kinder.
A little bruised, maybe, but more open.
More real.
And she deserves to be seen, not compared to the imaginary version that only ever existed in my head.
So if you’re here too, wrestling with where you thought you’d be, trying to make peace with not having it all figured out, I want you to know this...
Life isn’t linear.
Becoming doesn’t happen on a deadline.
And growth doesn’t always look like forward motion.
Sometimes it looks like rest.
Sometimes it looks like reflection.
Sometimes it’s simply surviving the day with your heart still soft.
Letting go of your old timelines doesn’t mean giving up.
It means making space for something more honest.
Something that fits you, not the version of you the world expected.
There’s beauty in that kind of freedom.
To not know what’s next, and still move forward anyway.
To trust that maybe the plan was never the point.
So take a deep breath.
Unclench your jaw.
Soften your expectations.
You’re still becoming. And that’s a beautiful thing.
Let this be your permission slip:
To begin again.
To grow slowly.
To take up space, even if you’re still figuring out who you are.
Because the real magic doesn’t happen when you “arrive.”
It happens when you realize you were never lost, you were just on a different kind of path.
A more human one.
With love,
Grace Street