Still becoming

She is not finished. And she is in no rush to be. Some goddesses are born divine.

And then there are souls like hers, who choose to grow slowly, walking barefoot through the leaves, listening to the world more with skin than with words.

No one gave her a title. There is no throne waiting.

But within her quiet lives a constant transformation.

She is Still Becoming.

By her side — or perhaps within her — stands the horse.

A symbol of strength, freedom, and instinct.

They don’t need to speak.

They are the same creature, split in two forms.

One made of skin, the other of mane.

One looks forward, the other senses the wind.

Her veil does not hide. It protects.

The flowers do not decorate. They speak.

She is dressed in all the things she’s loved and lost,

in what she’s learned without knowing how,

in what continues to bloom even when she’s not sure why.

She doesn’t know who she’ll become.

But she knows she will be herself.

And for now, that is enough.

In a world obsessed with definitions, she reminds us that truth is a path, not a label.

That we don’t need to shine all at once.

And that there is great strength in staying gently unfinished.