I tell myself I hate who I am, but sometimes I wonder if what I really hate is how long it’s taking to change. I expected transformation to be dramatic, decisive, visible. Instead, it’s slow and uncertain, and that uncertainty feels like proof that I’m failing again. Sometimes I imagine meeting myself without context—without history, without memories of every regret. I wonder if I would be kinder then. Or if I would still recognize the same heaviness and instinctively turn away.