She will remember who she is.

She will not beg.

She will not break for breadcrumbs.

She will not perform or, shrink or twist herself into palatable pieces.

The version of her that is emerging will not settle for silence in the name of peace or loneliness in the name of being chosen. She will walk away from half-hearted love, from performative friendships, from expectations that were never hers to carry.

But that version? That woman?

She is still becoming.

And this — this tender, torrential in-between — is her transition.

Because right now, she is not quite who she was, but not yet who she’s becoming. The shedding is still happening. The identity is still shifting. And the stretch — God, the stretch — hurts like hell.

When people talk about change, they celebrate the before and after. The glow-up. The comeback. But rarely do they linger in the middle — in that sacred ache where the spirit shifts and the soul groans for breath. That is where she is now.

When I think of everything I’ve endured — not just these past few weeks, but months, even years — it’s easy to understand why I’m tired. The kind of tiredness that isn’t fixed by sleep. The type that lives in the body. The kind that comes from carrying multiple versions of myself — woman, worker, warrior, dreamer, daughter, friend, mother… or the one still waiting to be called that.

Because every woman’s struggle is a piece of string — fragile, tangled, and threaded with expectation.

Some are surviving marriages that look picture-perfect on social media but feel like silent wars behind closed doors.

She smiles for the ‘date night’ posts, but no one sees the tears after the dishwasher fight or the way she sleeps with her back turned, hoping tomorrow will be softer.

Some are trying desperately to become mothers — timing cycles, facing doctors, avoiding baby showers. And some are grieving the loss of that possibility, learning to find joy in a life that may never be called “mum.”

Others are raising children alone or with partners who never really understood the emotional labour of it all.

They are managing school runs, career growth, unspoken grief, and dinner on the table — all while wondering if they’re getting any of it right.

And then there are those chasing dreams with trembling hands — pitching, applying, praying — while wondering if they’ve missed their moment or if the world is even ready for their voice.

Even the workplace has a script now. You don’t just apply — you audition. You don’t just speak — you optimise. Say the right words, perform the right identity, pray for the algorithm to smile upon you. And when it doesn’t, you still rise, smile, and try again.

The weight of being a woman is not one-size-fits-all. But it is heavy.

And in the middle of that weight, in the swirl of all those stories — is transition.

It’s not survival anymore. It’s not resilience. It’s the quiet, spiritual stretch between versions. The raw, unfinished chapter where you aren’t who you were — and not yet who you will be.

It’s the deep breath before the breakthrough.

The space between the ache and the answer.

And while the world wants the before-and-after, you are living in the during. The unbecoming. The holy unravelling. The tender becoming.

So if today you feel like you’re falling apart, know this: you’re not broken. You’re becoming.

This isn’t failure. This is formation.

And no matter what the world says — you are not late. Not lacking. Not behind. You are simply in transition.

Don’t rush it.

Don’t rush her.

The version of you that’s emerging will be worth the wait.

She will not perform.

She will not shrink.

She will not apologise for needing space to grow.

She will remember who she is.

Because this — this hard, messy, beautiful stretch — is not your end.

It’s your transition.

‘See’ you next week.

 

Sally Chiwuzie
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IG Handle: @unshakable.is.a.state.of.mind