Becoming, Lucy

My drive home today was a metaphor. Not something beautiful but… Bittersweet. One of those metaphors where people say the end is always worth it, where the goal is worth the struggle, worth the pain, the ugly, the bad.

It wasn’t the drive itself, it was the view. I have driven this road hundreds of times, it’s the main way out of town… It isn’t new to me. It is always beautiful though – I do live in a beautiful place. But it was the weather, the colours, the way dark and light made a picture.

It has rained everyday of 2026 in the UK, so everywhere is hues of browns and greys. The road is surrounded by open rolling hills on one side and woodland the other, then further back you can see the hills get higher, the famous peaks surrounding my town. Today, the sun has tried it’s hardest to come out, to push the clouds away and the scenery showed that. I turned the corner and in front of me, left and right, browns and greys surrounded me – my current journey, but then I looked further. I looked higher and there was the sun, shining down on the peaks, no clouds surrounding them. Just… Peace.

I paused (not literally, I was doing 50mph with cars in front and behind me, that would have been rather dangerous), realising what I was seeing, then laughed bitterly, followed by a small moment of tears. I didn’t need that reminder today – that life feels grey right now but if I keep going it won’t be. I’ll be able to see the warmth, feel the warmth as I get closer… I’ll be in the warmth. The peace.

I didn’t want that reminder. I think I’ve become comfortable in my own sadness.

I know I have. It’s easy here. Predictable.

If I stay here, I can’t be disappointed. If I don’t reach, I can’t fall. I survived here.

I’m too scared to step out of this container I’ve built around myself. I’m too scared to think of what is possible if I keep going. I have grown comfortable here – in the identities I have given myself, in the ones others have given me. If I try stepping away from those identities, everything will break.

Or at least I think it will.

I’m not sure if I’m allowed to want more. To step away from the roles, the masks I wear. This version of me… The one who survived by shrinking, by never reaching – she won’t let me step away, she won’t allow me to hope.

Taking one step feels like it will cause a landslide, the ground will give out from under me and I’ll no longer be half way to peace… I’ll be starting at the bottom.

If I reach for warmth… Will I have to burn everything down to get it?

Surviving built this life. I’m not sure who I am if I’m not surviving.