I’m Writing a Book. It’s Called Becoming More Than You Were Before. And I’d Like to Tell You Why.
I’m 58 years old.
My story is beginning again today.
Not because I’ve accomplished everything I wanted to. Not because I have it all figured out.
Quite the opposite.
I think it’s beginning because I’ve finally learned something I wish I’d understood decades ago:
What the Book Is About
Becoming More Than You Were Before is not a book about fixing yourself.
It’s a book about discovering who you might still become.
That distinction matters more than I can say.
Because most of us have spent years—decades, even—believing that in order to become better, we must first decide that who we were wasn’t good enough.
So we look backwards and see the mistakes.
The opportunities we didn’t take.
The years we think we wasted.
And somewhere along the way, we quietly make a judgement:
I should have been more.
But perhaps becoming isn’t about becoming more because you were once less.
Perhaps it’s about becoming more because you are still becoming.
The Journey of the Book
The book moves through four movements.
Part I — You Are Not Finished
You were always worthy.
Your story is only beginning.
You’re at a stage in your life where peace matters more than before.
And you can stop performing in the wrong room.
Part II — Learning to See Clearly
Acceptance is a foundation, not a grave.
Understanding yourself is neither the beginning nor the end of the journey.
Deep listening matters more than perfect recall.
And sometimes—like the blackberry—you’re not failing.
You’re just waiting for the weather to change.
Part III — Taking Back Your Agency
You’re not a victim anymore.
You can shift your emotional centre.
You don’t need unlimited freedom to change your life.
If you can’t win by the rules, you can change the rules.
Your mind is the greatest travel agent you’ll ever use—but you must learn to be your own travel consultant.
And yes, we’re all living on a borrowed dime.
That’s not our weakness.
That’s our superpower.
Part IV — Becoming
We all deserve a human golden retriever.
If you feel lost, you’re not lost—you’re exploring.
Manifesting is only the beginning.
The greatest revenge is forgiving yourself.
And there will come a morning you will not see—which is precisely why the morning you can see matters so much.
Why I Wrote It
Because I’ve been the person who felt behind.
Who felt finished.
Who wondered whether the best chapters were already written.
Because I’ve spent years learning that shame-driven improvement is brittle.
It shatters at the first stumble.
Witness-driven improvement is different.
It bends.
It observes the fall without panic.
And it gets back up.
Because I’ve discovered that a meaningful life can be built from surprisingly ordinary things.
A conversation.
A walk.
A boundary you finally establish.
A morning when you wake up and realise you are no longer trying to become someone else’s definition of successful.
And because I believe—genuinely, deeply—that you don’t have to despise the person you were to appreciate the person you’re becoming.
There’s Nothing and Everything Romantic About Learning to Love Yourself
I’ve been thinking about this line a lot lately.
There’s nothing romantic about learning to love yourself.
It doesn’t look like the movies.
There’s no candlelit dinner.
No grand gesture.
No one sweeping you off your feet.
It looks like getting up when the alarm goes off.
Choosing the tea you actually like.
Saying no to something that would quietly diminish you.
Putting down the phone and finishing your evening.
Forgiving yourself for the thing you said three days ago that still makes you wince at 1:17 a.m.
It’s unglamorous.
Unremarkable.
Often invisible.
And yet.
There’s everything romantic about it.
Because it is the great love story.
Not the one you were told to wait for—the one where someone else arrives and finally makes you feel worthy.
But the one where you stop waiting for permission to be loved and begin the slow, patient work of loving yourself.
That’s the plot twist nobody sees coming.
The love of your life isn’t out there. It’s in here.
The romance isn’t in grand gestures.
It’s in the quiet ones.
It’s in the moment you catch yourself being kind to the person you used to criticise.
It’s in the evening you choose rest over proving yourself worthy.
It’s in the morning you wake up and realise you are no longer trying to become someone else’s definition of successful.
It’s in forgiveness.
Not necessarily forgiveness of the people who hurt you—that may come later, or never.
But forgiveness of the version of you who stayed too long.
Trusted blindly.
Didn’t know then what you know now.
That’s the love story.
Not a rescue.
A reclaiming.
Because it’s the only relationship you’ll have for the entirety of your life.
The only one that will be with you in every room, every season, every morning you wake up.
And when you finally stop abandoning yourself to keep everyone else comfortable?
That’s not cold.
That’s the most romantic thing you’ll ever do.
What This Book Is Not
It’s not a book that promises transformation in thirty days.
It’s not a book that claims to have all the answers.
It’s not a book that will work for everyone.
It’s a book for the reader who is ready to sit with questions.
To do the slow work of becoming.
To be patient with themselves and the process.
It’s a book that says:
You are not broken.
You are not behind.
You are not failing.
You are becoming.
An Invitation
Over the coming weeks and months, I’ll be sharing more from the book here—excerpts, reflections, and the occasional thought that didn’t make it into the final manuscript.
If any of this resonates, I’d love for you to come along.
Not because I have the answers.
But because I’m still learning them too.
And because I suspect that some of you are, as well.
Your story isn’t finished.
You are not finished.
And the person you are becoming may surprise you.
Keep going.
You may be becoming more than you were before.
And that is something worth looking forward to.
