The Art of Becoming – Chapter 7
Compassion With a Spine
It is strange how easily we extend grace to others, and how sparingly we offer it to ourselves. We excuse the mistakes of friends. We soothe their doubts, tell them they’re allowed to falter, to rest, to begin again. But when we fall short, even slightly, we prosecute ourselves.
There is a quiet cruelty in the way we often live inside ourselves: a low, steady hum of judgment and correction. You should have known better. You should have done more. You’re always like this. These thoughts are not born from truth but from habit; habits we inherit, absorb, repeat. Somewhere along the way, many of us were taught that we must earn the right to be at ease within ourselves. That worth is granted only after a list of conditions has been met.
But what if we put down the list?
The self does not need to be constantly managed like a project. You do not need to become someone else to be worthy of your own gentleness. You are a being, not a product. You are not raw material meant only for refinement; you are already someone who feels, senses, aches, hopes. And that is not something broken to be improved; it is something alive to be honored.
Let yourself be tired when you are tired. Let yourself ache when it hurts. Not because suffering is noble, but because denial is dishonest. Truth, not comfort, is the beginning of clarity. To live fully is not to build a fortress against feeling; it is to remain open to it. The aim is not to transcend your own pain, but to learn how to stay with it without being destroyed. To see it not as an enemy, but as part of the terrain you must learn to walk with.
To live well is not to become untouched by life’s friction, but to move through it with attention. The deepest kind of strength is not invulnerability; it is the ability to remain present with what is, without retreating into distraction or performance. It is easy to be composed when nothing is at stake. But can you remain honest when your hands are trembling? Can you still face yourself when nothing feels resolved?
Yet, this is not a call to surrender your will. There is a danger in confusing acceptance with allowing stagnation. A life without direction becomes less a life and more a slow erosion. There is no virtue in floating aimlessly, forever waiting until you feel “ready.” You are not meant to be shaped by every passing impulse. You are also a sculptor with a chisel, time, and choice. And if you relinquish that, you risk becoming a background character in your own life.
Yes, be gentle, but let that gentleness sharpen you. Let it become the kind of care that demands something of you. Because your time matters. Because your potential is not a burden, but a responsibility. Rest, but do not forget to rise. To honor your life is to use it.
You are permitted to change without warning. You are permitted to turn around. You are permitted to not have a tidy narrative. You do not owe anyone a clean story. You only owe your days the sincerity of being lived with your whole attention.
So perhaps the true task is not to chase some shining version of yourself, but to remain faithful to the act of becoming. To be honest with yourself and how you feel, and allow time for rest and recollection.
And when you forget or lose sight of who you are becoming, begin again. Not with punishment. Not with performance. But with presence. Treat yourself kindly and let yourself begin from wherever you are.
I urge you to ask yourself:
Am I honest with myself about when I truly need rest, and when I might just be avoiding effort?
Do I speak to myself with the same patience I offer others, especially when I fall short?
Have I confused gentleness with passivity—am I giving myself grace, or permission to stay stuck?
Brooke Desieus 