i still don't know who i am.

excerpt from john greens ‘an abundance of katherines’

this is something i think about a lot because.

Pain's Like Cold Water Your Brain Just Gets Used To It

There are truths I hold firmly. Truths that have anchored me through storms, through stillness, through all the moments of doubt.

I know that rest is sacred. It’s necessary, but it doesn’t always come easily. I still wrestle with guilt when I slow down, as though I’ll be judged for not doing enough, for not being enough. Even in moments when my body begs for reprieve, the weight of expectation holds me in place. It’s a battle to unlearn the idea that my worth is tied to my pace, to my productivity. I know that rest, true rest, is not a luxury... it’s a lifeline.

But I don’t know why it feels like I have to earn it first.

I know that love should feel safe. There are times when I’ve allowed myself to stay in places that felt uncertain, unsure, because somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought love was supposed to be difficult. But love should be a place where you’re seen, where you’re held.

But I don’t always know how to let go of the fear that safety might disappear the moment I settle into it.

I know healing is not linear. It’s never as simple as "getting better." There are days when I feel as though I’m moving forward, making progress, only to be pulled back into old wounds. And yet, those setbacks teach me something too. That healing is not about perfection. It’s about showing up, again and again, with the broken pieces, and allowing them to be enough.

But I don't know how many times I'll start over before I finally feel whole.

I know that some people are meant to be temporary, but it doesn’t make their absence any less significant. The spaces they leave behind are felt in the quiet moments, in the milestones they won’t witness, in the emptiness of their chair at the table.

But I don’t know why we lose people when we do, or how to stop missing them in the moments they mattered most.

I know that my body holds wisdom I often ignore. It tells me when it’s time to rest, when it’s time to fight, when it’s time to let go. But I don’t always listen. Instead, I push it to its limits, ignoring the warnings until I can’t anymore.

But I don't know why I keep treating it like something to overcome instead of something to honor.

I know that being soft in a hard world is a kind of strength. It’s not about being fragile or weak, it’s about allowing yourself to be vulnerable, to show up with an open heart even when the world feels cold.

But I don't know why that strength is so often overlooked, or why we feel like we have to harden to survive.

I know that I am not the same person I was a year ago, and I’m not the same person I was five years ago. The changes are subtle, but they’re there. And I know that I’ll keep evolving, keep growing, and keep learning.

But I don't know who I will become or how to be at peace with the parts of myself that I will leave behind.

I know that I want to be present. I want to show up fully in my life, in my relationships, in my work.

But I don’t always know how to let go of the fear of the future, the anxiety of what’s to come.

I know that joy and sorrow can exist side by side. That they are not opposites, but companions. They intertwine, each one making the other more profound. I know that they are both parts of life, parts of me, and I will continue to carry them both, even as I navigate the space between them.

But I don’t know how to hold both without feeling like I might break in the balancing.

I know that I am still becoming and that becoming isn’t always beautiful. I’m learning to trust the unknown, to trust the unfolding. To trust that I am enough, even in the moments when I feel like I’m still figuring it out. We talk about growth in glowing terms, about how we should embrace the changes life brings with open arms. I know that sometimes becoming is painful. Sometimes it’s messy, and sometimes you feel like you’re falling apart before you can come back together.

Maybe the point is never to know it all. Maybe it’s enough to keep going, to keep listening, to keep learning. Maybe it’s not about what I know or don’t know, but about the willingness to stay with myself through all of it. And somewhere in the middle of the knowing and the not knowing maybe that’s where I find who I really am.

Reflective Question: What if the not knowing isn't a flaw to fix, but rather a path to follow?