Becoming Her: The Woman You’re Still Growing Into

It’s quiet right now. The kind of quiet that makes you notice everything — the hum of the air, the rustle of the wind sliding down the mountain, and that little red robin that keeps visiting me like clockwork. She’s perched on the same tree again, small but bold, feathers bright against the pale blue sky. I see her almost every day now. Sometimes she lands right on the terrace railing and just… sits. Like she knows something I don’t.

There’s something about her calm that gets to me. She doesn’t chase. She doesn’t flutter around for attention. She just is. And sitting here, with the mountains in front of me and this little bird staring at me like, “Girl, breathe,” I realized — this is what becoming looks like. It’s not loud. It’s not always pretty. It’s this messy, slow, quiet unraveling where you stop trying to be who you were, and you finally let yourself be who you are.

I’ve been in that space lately — that in-between. You know what I mean. Not the young version of me who could stay up till 2 a.m. and still look decent in the morning. But not the “settled” woman either, the one who’s got her garden gloves on and her calendar filled with grandkids’ birthdays. I’m somewhere in the middle. Not lost. Just… shifting.

And nobody really tells you what to do with that shift. One day you’re running around being everything to everybody — mom, wife, leader, caretaker, whatever hat life handed you — and the next, you’re standing in your kitchen staring at your reflection in the microwave thinking, “Who the hell am I now?”

It sneaks up on you.

You don’t plan to lose pieces of yourself; it just happens over time. The woman who used to laugh at everything now sighs more than she speaks. The one who used to get dressed up just to go to the grocery store now debates if a Target run even deserves a bra. And that’s not depression — that’s fatigue. The kind that comes from constantly performing.

We don’t even realize we’ve been performing until life gets quiet.

And that’s where I am. Quiet. Sitting in this space between “what was” and “what’s next,” trying to get reacquainted with the woman underneath it all. Because for years, I’ve been busy being who I thought I was supposed to be. And honestly? She’s tired.

The funny part is, when I finally slowed down, I thought I’d find peace right away. Girl, please. What I found was laundry I never folded, dreams I never chased, and a woman I didn’t fully recognize. But here’s what I also found — glimpses of her. The her I buried under responsibility. The her who used to dance in the kitchen for no reason. The her who wasn’t afraid to say no. The her who knew her worth before anyone else confirmed it.

She’s been waiting on me to catch up.

And I think that’s the whole point of this season — to catch up with ourselves.

It’s not about a glow-up, though if that happens, praise God and good lighting. It’s about remembering what it feels like to be. No filters, no expectations, no damn performance reviews. Just you — raw, beautiful, undone, figuring it out in real time.

I had a moment the other day. I was scrolling through photos — old ones from when I thought I was “too big” or “not pretty enough.” Lord, if I could go back and slap that girl. She had no clue how fine she was. And that’s the thing about perspective. We don’t see our beauty until it’s behind us. But that’s changing now.

Because becoming her — the woman you’re still growing into — means finally seeing your now-self with the same grace you give your past self. It means saying, “Yeah, I’ve changed. And thank God I did.”

Now don’t get me wrong, becoming her is not all deep breaths and journaling. Sometimes it’s ugly crying in the shower. Sometimes it’s snapping at your husband for breathing too loud. Sometimes it’s buying a new dress that looked cute on the hanger but makes you look like a sexy lamp shade — and deciding to keep it anyway.

It’s all part of it.

And if I were coaching you right now, I’d tell you this: stop trying to rush the process. Stop apologizing for evolving. Stop pretending you don’t care when you do. Becoming is not a performance; it’s a practice.

You’re not who you were, but you’re not done becoming either.

So instead of asking, “Who am I now?” try asking, “Who am I becoming?”
That one word — becoming — gives you permission to not have it all figured out yet.

The red robin showed up again this morning, right as I was writing. She hopped from branch to branch like she owned the damn place. Confident. Soft. Steady. And I couldn’t help but smile, because she didn’t have to announce herself. She just landed and took up space.

That’s what I want for us — to take up space without apologizing for it. To stop shrinking just because life shifted. To stop thinking we have to earn the right to start over.

Maybe your kids are grown and gone. Maybe the marriage feels like a long, quiet roommate situation. Maybe your body feels like it’s going through a reboot every three days. Maybe you’re staring at the version of your life you thought you wanted and realizing… it doesn’t fit anymore.

That’s okay.

It doesn’t mean you failed. It means you’re outgrowing what no longer fits.

If you were sitting here with me right now, I’d hand you a cup of coffee and say this:
You’re allowed to want more. You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re allowed to wake up and decide that the woman everyone knew isn’t the woman you want to be anymore.

And you don’t need anyone’s permission slip to start.

That’s what I had to learn the hard way. I spent years trying to prove I could juggle everything — ministry, family, career, expectations. But somewhere in the juggling, I forgot how to hold me.

And when life slowed down — when the noise quieted — I realized the silence wasn’t punishment. It was invitation.

Because sometimes God (or whatever word you use for that deeper voice inside you) has to turn the volume down on everything else so you can finally hear yourself.

That’s what the robin reminded me.

Every time she lands, I notice her patience. She doesn’t rush to leave. She just observes. And in her stillness, I’m learning to do the same — to stop rushing my own evolution.

There’s no deadline for becoming.

We think growth has to look like progress charts and productivity, but most of the real change happens in the pauses. The quiet mornings. The moments when no one’s watching.

So here’s your gentle coaching nudge: this week, give yourself permission to do one small thing that feels like you. Not the “you” people expect. The you that feels like truth. Maybe it’s blasting your favorite song from the 90s and dancing like nobody’s judging your knees. Maybe it’s signing up for that class you’ve been talking yourself out of. Maybe it’s sitting outside, letting the wind hit your face, and saying, “I’m still here.”

Because you are.

You’re still here.

And you’re still becoming.

So the next time you catch your reflection and start to criticize — don’t. Look at her. That woman staring back at you is proof that growth isn’t always graceful, but it’s always worth it.

The laugh lines, the soft belly, the messy hair, the tears, the courage — it’s all part of the story.

And listen — if you ever forget how strong you are, just imagine that red robin sitting on your windowsill, cocking her little head like, “Girl, you better remember who the hell you are.”

That’s your reminder.

You’re not behind. You’re not late. You’re not broken. You’re just becoming.

And I don’t know about you, but I’m done rushing her. I’m done apologizing for needing time, space, peace, or a damn break. I’m letting this next chapter unfold at its own pace.

Because the woman I’m becoming? She doesn’t need validation. She doesn’t chase. She doesn’t perform. She’s not perfect — but she’s present.

And that’s enough.

So here’s to us — the women still growing, still learning, still laughing, still swearing under our breath, still finding ourselves one honest morning at a time.

Here’s to every messy, sacred, beautiful piece of becoming her.

And if you’re ready to walk this journey with a little more intention — if you’re ready to stop performing and start living again — come sit with me at coachantoinette.com.

We’ll figure out your next chapter together.

© 2025 Antoinette McCormick | The Coaching Table | Hot Flashes & Cold Truth

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