A quiet reflection on what it means to be in the middle of growth—still unfolding, not quite there, but no longer who you were. This post explores the sacredness of the in-between, the softness of slowing down, and the silent courage it takes to honour your cocoon season.

I read that quote again today, almost by accident. I wasn’t looking for wisdom—I was just scrolling, tired, half-asleep, nose still aching from the last few days’ flu, and heart feeling like something in it hadn’t fully returned yet.

“You do not just wake up and become the butterfly. Growth is a process.” – Rupi Kaur

Five years ago, I might’ve read that and shrugged. Today, it lands differently. Today, it feels like someone placing their hand gently on my shoulder and saying, “You’re not failing. You’re forming.”

Because lately, I’ve felt caught between chapters. Not entirely lost, but not fully found either. There are parts of me that feel like they’ve outgrown the past but aren’t yet brave enough to step fully into what’s next. And this quote—simple, soft, but so honest—reminds me of something I forget far too often: the cocoon matters just as much as the wings.

No one really talks about the cocoon season. The part where everything is blurry. The dreams are there, but so is doubt. The desire is strong, but so is the exhaustion. You know you’ve changed, but you’re not sure what the change is turning you into yet.

When I moved to the UK years ago, everyone saw the nurse in me, the achiever, the woman who chased a dream and caught it. But what they didn’t see was the girl crying in the bathroom at 2AM, googling the meaning of British slang like “loo” or “miffed.” The girl who walked to work in freezing rain because she couldn’t afford a cab.

No one posts about the moments in between. The awkward becoming. We only show the butterfly. But no one applauds the cocoon. And yet… that’s where the real work happens.

This Is What Growth Has Looked Like for Me. Growth wasn’t always poetic. Sometimes it looked like sleeping through my day off because my body just couldn’t do more.

Sometimes it meant ending friendships I’d outgrown, even when it hurt more to let go than to stay. Sometimes it meant saying “I don’t know,” even in rooms where I was expected to have answers.

Growth has been slow. Uncomfortable. Unseen. But it’s been real.

It’s been:

• Choosing joy over guilt.
• Learning to rest without apology.
• Crying, but not crumbling.
• Letting things go without needing to be the hero of the ending.

I used to think healing looked like strength, posture, and poise. Now I know it often looks like a blanket around your shoulders, tea you reheated twice, and breathing deeply while folding socks.

The Myth of the Instant Butterfly In a world of instant gratification, the slow beauty of process is often mistaken for failure. We scroll through highlight reels and think we’re falling behind.

But real transformation rarely happens in public. It happens in quiet. In your journal. In your messy room. In conversations where you admit you don’t have it all together.

There’s no shortcut to the butterfly. You must become undone first. You must dissolve. And that part isn’t pretty. It’s not Instagram-worthy. But it’s holy.

Permission to Be In Process. This is your reminder—gentle, quiet, and warm as a friend’s hug—you don’t have to be the butterfly today.

You don’t have to glow. You don’t have to fly. You don’t even have to move.

You just have to stay. To breathe. To trust that what looks like nothing happening on the outside… might just be everything happening within.

You are still becoming. And becoming is sacred.

In Case You Forgot Today…

• Growth takes time.
• Healing isn’t linear.
• Rest is productive.
• You are not behind.
• You are not broken.
• You are in process.

And that? That’s beautiful.

If this season of your life feels slow, uncertain, or like you’re stuck in between versions of yourself—know that you are not alone. I’m right here too. With a journal full of questions, a heart still learning to trust the quiet, and a nose that still looks suspiciously like Rudolph.

So let’s be kind to our unfinished selves. Let’s hold space for the beauty of the becoming. Let’s honour the cocoon.

Because butterflies don’t bloom by force. They bloom when it’s time. And you, my dear, are blooming—even now.