Shecoria | Essays on Becoming

I cried in my car the other day for reasons I couldn’t explain.

Nothing had happened.

No breakup. No bad news. Nobody died. I wasn’t even having a bad week.

Actually, by every measurable standard, life feels… good.

I have a life that gives me purpose. I’m finishing graduate school. I’ve traveled more this year than I ever imagined I would. I have friends who show up for me. I have family who would answer the phone at three in the morning. I am in the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had.

If you asked me a few years ago what I wanted my life to look like at twenty-five, I probably would’ve described something pretty close to this.

So why did I feel like something was ending?

For the last few weeks, I’ve kept asking myself the same question.

What is the difference between growth and grief?

Because they feel almost identical.

Everyone talks about grieving people.

Nobody talks about grieving versions of yourself.

The girl who had unlimited time with her friends because nobody had serious relationships yet.

The girl who never had to think about which city she wanted to build a life in.

The girl whose weekends belonged to everyone instead of calendars.

The girl who believed that once she found love, everything else would click into place.

I miss her sometimes.

Not because she had a better life.

Because she knew exactly who she was.

Lately I’ve noticed that I feel most like myself when I’m surrounded by people I love. A weekend with friends. A family trip. Sitting around someone’s kitchen talking for hours. Walking through a city with no particular place to be.

Then I come home.

And the silence feels louder than it used to.

It’s almost embarrassing how dramatic it feels. I’ll have the most incredible weekend, hug everyone goodbye, unpack my suitcase, feed my cat, and suddenly I’m crying over a life I genuinely enjoy.

For a while I thought maybe I wasn’t grateful enough.

Maybe I needed another hobby. Another trip. Another goal.

But I don’t think gratitude and grief cancel each other out.

I think they can sit next to each other.

I’ve also realized that being loved and feeling understood are not always the same thing.

Someone can love you deeply and still not instinctively understand what makes you feel chosen.

Someone can care for you while speaking a language that isn’t your own.

That’s not a criticism.

It’s just one of the stranger discoveries of adulthood.

Love doesn’t erase loneliness.

Sometimes it simply changes its shape.

The hardest part about this season has been accepting that nobody did anything wrong.

There isn’t a villain.

My friends are growing up.

My family lives in another state.

I’m creating a life that younger me would’ve celebrated.

Nothing is broken.

Everything is just… changing.

Maybe that’s why this grief feels so confusing.

There isn’t anything to fix.

I’m simply becoming someone I’ve never been before.

People love to say that adulthood is lonely.

I don’t think that’s quite right.

I think adulthood asks you to become intentional.

The friendships that used to happen because everyone lived down the hall now require flights, shared calendars, and months of planning.

Home stops being a place someone else creates for you.

You have to build it yourself.

I don’t think I’ve finished building mine yet.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been crying.

Not because I’m unhappy.

Not because I want my old life back.

But because I’m standing in the strange space between the life I imagined and the life I’m still learning how to live.

I spent years asking for this version of my life.

Now I have to learn how to belong inside it.