There are days when I know exactly who I am.
There’s a deep hum beneath my skin.
A melody dancing along my edges, defining the shape of me.
I walk differently. Speak differently.
I don’t second-guess.
I simply am.
Solid.
Certain.
Unmistakably me.
And then there are days when it all unravels.
When the clarity vanishes, like a dream you try to hold onto after waking.
When I feel like an echo of myself.
Like I’m swimming in a vast sea with no horizon, no anchor, no shore.
A shape made of smoke.
Flickering. Fading.
On those days, I reach for proof:
Something to remind me that I exist beyond the blur.
A memory with gravity around it.
A friend who can hold a mirror, reflecting back who I am.
Sometimes, I find a thread and follow it back to myself.
Other times, I let the unraveling happen.
Because maybe this is part of it too.
Maybe we’re not meant to always know.
Maybe forgetting is its own sacred rhythm.
Because knowledge—like identity—isn’t linear.
It folds in on itself.
It expands.
It dissolves and reforms like waves meeting the shore.
What you once knew for certain can slip through your fingers.
And what you forgot can come rushing back with the force of a revelation.
Like a shiny penny found in the couch cushions of life—ten years, two months, and three days later.
You pick it up and laugh.
It’s familiar.
And it’s not.
It’s changed. You’ve changed.
That’s the paradox of knowing.
Sometimes we rediscover truths like old friends—worn on the edges, softened by time.
Sometimes what we thought we knew shapeshifts before our eyes.
And sometimes, we learn how much we never knew at all.
This is not failure.
This is not regression.
This is what it means to be human.
To move in spirals, not straight lines.
To forget.
To remember.
To get lost and find yourself again—and again, and again.
Even the void has a purpose.
It clears space.
It humbles the ego.
It softens our grip.
And from that emptiness, something new can emerge:
A deeper truth.
A wider self.
A knowing that’s less about certainty and more about aliveness.
So if today is one of those days—where the shape of you feels vague, where nothing feels solid—breathe.
You’re not broken.
You’re not lost.
You’re becoming.
And even the becoming is holy.
Let the forgetting be part of the dance.
Let the rediscovery surprise you.
Let yourself drift… and trust that you’ll return.
Not as you were.
But as who you’re ready to be next.
P.S. In coaching, I help people navigate the spiral—remembering who they are, even in the in-between. If that’s what you’re needing right now, I’d be honored to walk alongside you.
👉 [Let’s connect.]
