A reminder to every woman: You’re not done becoming

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There was a morning, not too long ago, when I stood in the mirror and barely recognized myself. My eyes looked exhausted—not from lack of sleep, but from years of holding everything together: motherhood, work, heartbreak, starting over in a new country and choosing strength even when strength felt like a burden. I whispered to my own reflection, Girl…where you gone?

And, for the first time in a long time, the truth sat heavy on my chest: I was losing pieces of myself while carrying everyone else.

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I grew up surrounded by strong women.  

As a Caribbean woman, I grew up surrounded by strong women who survived storms with grace and fire. They prayed with conviction, loved with depth and sacrificed without applause. I inherited that resilience—but living in Europe, far from home, I often felt like I was using it up faster than I could refill it. Behind the courage and competence was a quiet ache I didn’t have language for.

One cold afternoon, something inside nudged me to take a walk. No plan, no purpose—just movement. The air bit at my skin, but it felt honest, almost cleansing. As I walked, memories of past versions of me rose up and came to mind. The girl who believed anything was possible. The young woman who loved fully. The mother who showed up even when she was running on fumes. The dreamer who tucked away her vision because life demanded practicality.

Somewhere between one breath and the next, I felt God whisper to my spirit: You’re not done becoming.

The whisper wasn’t loud.  

It didn’t shake the ground. But it did shift something inside me—like a key turning inside a lock I didn’t realize I’d closed. It felt like an invitation to breathe again, to reclaim myself and to stop surviving long enough that I finally remember how I’m meant to shine.

I stood still on that cold sidewalk, letting the message settle. I realized how often I prayed for strength while avoiding softness. How often I asked God to help me push through when He was really calling me to slow down. How many times I had dimmed parts of myself to keep the peace, all the while forgetting that God placed a light in me for a reason.

From that day, I made one simple promise. I would no longer shrink in spaces God called me to stand tall. Healing didn’t happen overnight. It came in small, humbling ways.

  • Setting boundaries without guilt.
  • Allowing myself to cry without apology.
  • Celebrating small wins instead of waiting for big ones.
  • Praying not only for strength, but for peace, rest, clarity and courage.
  • Remembering my Caribbean roots, the women who shaped me, and the faith that carried me across oceans.

 

Little by little, I saw myself returning—not the old version, but the wiser one. The version of me that understands resilience doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine. The version of me that knows starting over after 45 isn’t a setback—it’s a sacred invitation. The version of me that remembers becoming is a lifelong journey, not a single breakthrough.

I see a woman still in progress.  

Now, when I catch my reflection, I see a woman still in progress. I see a woman who is present, grounded and rising. A woman who carries her culture like a crown, her faith like a compass and her story with her whole chest. A woman who knows God didn’t bring her this far to leave her unfinished.

And, on the days when doubt creeps in, I turn my memory to that quiet walk when God whispered truth into my weary heart: You’re not done becoming.

The beautiful thing is, I finally believe Him.