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Personal Reflection:

There are mornings when clarity slips out the back door before you even wake. You move through the house like someone left the lights on but the power off—everything familiar, yet dim. This quote sits in that space. The simple truth that being “lost” isn’t a permanent address; it’s a condition of being alive, breathing, and paying attention. Some days you know who you are. Some days you forget. Most days, you’re somewhere in between.

But there’s a deeper ache here—the quiet admission that becoming yourself is not a single heroic moment. It’s more like tidal work. You rise, you recede, you wash ashore in pieces you have to gather with your own hands. And God help you if you think you’re supposed to stay steady the whole time. We lose ourselves in grief, in grind, in the noise of other people’s expectations. We lose ourselves in the stories we tell to survive. And then—somewhere in the wreckage—we catch a glint of the person we’re trying to grow into. It’s never clean. It’s never cinematic. But it’s real. And it’s ours.

Maybe this is the quiet mercy of the whole thing: you are allowed to return to yourself as many times as it takes. No failure in not knowing. No shame in wandering. Just the slow, stubborn truth that becoming isn’t a destination—it’s a rhythm. Lost. Unlost. Lost again. And still here, still walking, still listening for the next version of yourself calling from somewhere just beyond the edge of today.

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Reflective Prompt

When was the last time you returned to yourself without announcing it to anyone?