The Art of Becoming

The terrain of the path towards self-discovery

In a little over a month, I turn 50. Although some view this as the midpoint of life, I do not aspire to live to 100, and I believe my life is approximately 60% lived. From my vantage point as the mother of a teenager and a perimenopausal woman, I have ample room for reflection on how we become throughout our lives. Are we born as the person we truly are, before we are asked to fit into the mold created by society, family and other contextual factors? Or do we develop a greater self-awareness and expression as the years go by?

I remember the child who loved to sing and dance, with a vivid imagination. I could spend hours entertaining myself alone outside, acting out scenes from books I’d read and movies I’d seen. I could be still and ponder the distinct textures of each blade of grass and how they split into finer fibers when rubbed between your fingers. I could feel soothed by the hum of my voice in my chest as I became Annie or Dorothy, singing about tomorrow and rainbows. I also remember hiding behind my mother’s legs whenever she introduced me to a friend, and I recall viscerally the panic of having all eyes on me if I raised my hand in class, my words stuck in my throat. As a teen, I focused on friendships and schoolwork, too shy for boys and not confident enough to put my art out into the world (although I did start writing a novel at 14 that is somewhere on a floppy disk at my parents’ house).

Today, I am a woman who, at times, still clams up, but very rarely. I can go on a first date with no nerves, regularly put my writing and dancing on public platforms for anyone to find it. A new, fearless version. Life has granted me a voice that grows bolder every year. I eagerly talk to strangers on the street and, though still thoughtful and measured in more professional and public settings, I’ve lived long enough to have confidence in my perspective. Nevertheless, just like little Rebecca, I treasure time alone and value imagination and artistic expression.

As a mother, I took five years to realize that my child’s character was her own, not a reflection of me. My calm, sweet baby was truly a fiery, headstrong, leader with a penchant for being in control. Adolescence has her seeking guideposts along the way instead of planting them herself, but she is still described by teachers as “highly emotionally aware.” One of the lessons she is learning lately is centered on emotional expression – on the ability to “burden” others with her feelings and trust that she might be well-received, instead of presenting a façade of having it all together.

I continue to be the proudest mother. What a lesson to learn! If she, at fourteen, can understand this concept, there is hope for our future. In my generation, the idea that one could share their innermost, vulnerable feelings and not be met with defensiveness or shame was practically unheard of. These days, it is relationship mecca, and we are encouraged to let go of anyone who can’t manage to hold our feelings without taking them personally. However, throughout time, people have and will continue seeking safety, acceptance, and validation. To be mirrored by others who see not just the beauty but the flaws and willingly stand by us. But too often, we hide our perceived flaws, fearing that they will speak as loudly to others as they do to us.

June is pride month, and to start out the season I had a beautiful conversation at work with a gay man about coming out. At 33, he marveled at the freedom he feels now to be himself, compared to the scared, inhibited teenage boy who couldn’t tell anyone who he really was, not even himself. We discussed how the passage of the years allows us to learn and accept who we are, liberating us. Having had a taste of this experience, he was looking forward to his 40’s, knowing that the pieces of himself he still harbors the urge to hide will become unstuck.

I also had the pleasure of listening to a beautiful podcast with my friends and colleagues Aimee and Adam about a topic I’ve reflected on many times throughout my life and work: how queerness bestows the gift of non-conformity. When your essence has no hope of fitting in with the model you’ve been taught – mother, father, two kids, a pet, and the white picket fence – there is no choice but to build a new one.

But non-conformity can be scary, and safety is a privilege we cannot take for granted. Safety comes not just from the bravery to express oneself, but from societal and self-acceptance, financial stability, bodily autonomy, and freedom from violence. Too many of us do not have the luxury of “becoming ourselves” because to do so would threaten the foundation of safety we need to survive.

How do we learn where we are safe? In the same way that we become. We take a few steps, fall down, learn to get back up, dare to take a few more steps. I used to be terrified of heights. The first time I went rappelling, I spent a dreadful amount of time daring to lean back over the cliff. I had to trust that I was safe even if I didn’t feel supported. When I finally threw my weight into the emptiness behind me, and found the steadiness in my legs, I realized I could fly down the mountain.

Similarly, at 25 I embarked on a two-month solo trip through Spain and Italy. I arrived in Bilbao late one afternoon, unaware of one of the thousands of European festivals that was going on. I went from one budget hotel to the next seeking a room for the night, and all were full. I felt the terror rising in my chest, bobbing in my throat like a balloon hitting the ceiling, overflowing into tears. I walked the streets, crying, until eventually a stranger asked me what was wrong. When I explained, she told me which bus to take to a brand-new hostel that by law would have to let me stay, even if all the beds were full. I ended up rooming with a fun Spanish girl with whom I toured the Guggenheim the next day. The experience marked a before and after for my sense of safety.

Now, 25 years later, I’ve fallen more times than I can count, and I’ve learned to trust in my legs and in others to have my back, even when it feels like I’m plunging into a void. I’ve reclaimed the energy I used to spend trying to be accepted by others and channeled it into accepting myself. Part of the process is remembering the child I was, and another part is daring to believe in the woman I can be. I’ve learned to listen to my inner voice and am still learning the scariest part: revealing it to others. I will keep practicing, because when we can let someone else in on the parts we hide, even from ourselves, and we’re met with acceptance, true confidence, connection and intimacy emerge.

Alongside my daughter, I am learning that my feelings are not a burden. Rather, they are the terrain that make up my path. At times smooth as new pavement, other times gravel stones that slide underfoot, still others full of potholes and muddy puddles to navigate. But the path is always there, like the clearing in the woods waiting to be discovered. And the journey is the art of becoming.