Fear of Becoming

Fear doesn't mean you are moving in the wrong direction. Often it means you're leaving an old identity behind.

Something shifted in me last year, and it didn’t arrive with fireworks or fanfare. 
It came quietly. Subtly.
Like the moment you realize a sweater you’ve loved for years suddenly feels heavy on your shoulders.

It was the Year of the Snake, and I felt myself shed a final layer—one I didn’t even know had been dimming my shine. Nothing dramatic. Just a deep, internal knowing that something old had finished its work.

As I look toward 2026, I can’t help but feel the weight and wonder of it. It’s considered one of the rarest years in the Chinese Zodiac—the Year of the Fire Horse—a combination that appears only once every sixty years. I won’t go too far down the symbolic path here, but I do find meaning in noticing patterns, especially when they echo something already stirring inside.

The last time this year appeared was 1966. A year that changed the trajectory of women’s lives. It was when the National Organization for Women was formed, soon followed by countless grassroots movements—women gathering in homes and communities, speaking aloud what had long been held quietly. It marked the beginning of women’s liberation as we know it.

And I feel that same kind of energy moving now. Not loud. Not radical for the sake of it. But purposeful. Awake. Alive.

What’s emerging in me is a woman who feels deeply grateful for the life she’s lived, and equally aware that something more is calling. For a long time last year, I felt restless in a way I couldn’t easily explain. A sense that I was meant to be somewhere else, doing something else, being someone else—not because my life was wrong, but because it was ready to expand.

It wasn’t about starting over. It was about coming alive.

Not just breathing or existing or moving through the days on autopilot—but feeling vibrantly present in my own life again. And so this year, I made a quiet decision. I chose one simple question to guide me whenever I felt uncertain or stood at a crossroads:

Does this make me feel more alive?

If the answer is yes, I lean in. If the answer is no, I let it go—with grace, not guilt. It sounds simple, and it is. But it’s also profoundly powerful. Because it brings you back into relationship with yourself.

The truth is, every one of us lives in the space between two lives at some point. The one we’ve been living, and the one we’re slowly, sometimes awkwardly, stepping toward. And if you’re in that in-between right now—between what was and what will be—I want you to know this: you don’t need all the answers. You don’t need certainty. You don’t need a perfectly mapped plan.

You are coming alive as you walk forward. And there can be peace in that movement, even when it feels tender.

Change doesn’t arrive in sprints. It unfolds in seasons. And the season you may be in right now can feel lonely, because the old story is loosening its grip and the new one hasn’t fully introduced itself yet. That doesn’t mean you’re lost. It means you’re between identities.

That space—between who you were and who you’re becoming—is not weakness. It’s a threshold. And thresholds are tender places.

Here’s something I want to say clearly and gently: fear does not mean you’re moving in the wrong direction. Very often, it means you’re leaving an old identity behind. You’re not afraid because you’re incapable. You’re afraid because you know you’re changing.

Many of us spent years becoming strong before we ever felt safe. Responsibility came before permission. Survival came before self-expression. Becoming, for a long time, wasn’t a choice—it was a necessity.

This time is different.

This time, becoming isn’t being forced by loss or crisis or circumstance. It’s being chosen. And strangely enough, that can feel scarier than hardship. Because now the question isn’t “How do I get through this?” It’s “Who am I if I let myself expand?”

That’s a very human fear.

So moving forward doesn’t require pushing yourself or erasing fear. It asks something much kinder: that you walk with it, one honest step at a time. Clarity doesn’t come before movement—it comes after. Your job right now isn’t to see the whole picture, but to notice the next true step. One conversation. One creative act. One choice that feels a little more alive than the last.

Fear can come along for the ride. It just doesn’t get to drive.

And if part of you worries that your growth might disrupt the people you love, let me offer this reassurance: your becoming doesn’t pull you away from your life. It brings you back to yourself. When you are more you, you are more present, more generous, more alive. Growth doesn’t destabilize love—it oxygenates it.

Instead of asking, “What if this goes wrong?” try asking something gentler and steadier: “What if I don’t abandon myself this time?”

You are not starting over. You are returning—with wisdom, discernment, and choice. And fear? Fear simply means you’re standing at the edge of a life that asks more of you—not in effort, but in truth.

When the fear rises, let this be enough:
I can move forward gently. I don’t have to rush to be brave.

That is strength.
That is love.
That is becoming.

And you don’t have to leap.
You just have to stay honest—and keep walking.

Copyright: 2026 Helene  Oseen