While scrolling online last night, I came across a post about mourning the people we used to be.

It spoke about grieving past versions of yourself. Missing them. Wondering what happened to the person you once were.

It stopped me in my tracks. Not because I saw myself in mourning. But because I realized I’ve had many deaths in this life too. Only I don’t grieve or mourn them at all.

I look back on those versions of myself with gratitude.

Not because they had it easy, but because each of them taught me something the next version of me needed to know.

There was the shy little boy who barely spoke.

The one who was afraid of his intimidating uncles, who never quite knew what to say to people, who preferred to disappear into the background rather than risk saying the wrong thing. The one who escaped into his Sega Genesis because those worlds were easier to understand than the real one.

Then there was the bullied kid who wondered why he wasn’t enough.

The one who didn’t have many friends. Who slowly became angry, who questioned his own worth, yet somehow still found himself helping the very kids who bullied him with their math homework. Looking back, I don’t know if that was strength, innocence, or simply the kind of person I was underneath all that hurt.

Then came the angry teenager.

The one who thought the world was against him. Who was constantly frustrated with his parents and couldn’t wait to move out because he was convinced he knew better. The one who thought adulthood meant finally having all the answers, only to discover years later that growing up is really about realizing how much you still have to learn.

After that came the young man who desperately wanted everyone to like him.

The one who measured his worth by promotions, recognition, and other people’s approval. Who cared so deeply about his work that he ignored every warning sign. Who kept pushing because he thought proving himself was the same as finding purpose. Who stuck it out at a job that was slowly killing him mentally and emotionally until it eventually starting presenting itself physically.

Until one day he burned himself out completely.

It took that version of me breaking before I finally understood that my value wasn’t measured by what I could produce, how many problems I could solve, or how much of myself I could sacrifice. It took asking for help before I learned that strength sometimes looks a lot quieter than I ever imagined.

And somewhere along the way, another version of me quietly appeared. Not all at once. Just little by little.

The one who learned to let things go. The one who stopped trying to impress everyone and started trying to inspire someone, the one who knows he is not perfect and doesn’t need to be.

The one who discovered joy in growing vegetables, raising chickens, writing fantasy novels, rolling dice around a D&D table, learning new technologies, dreaming about homesteading, playing a video game with a friend, spending time with my wife and son, and sharing pieces of life in the hope that they might encourage someone else.

If you had told five-year-old me, or ten-year-old me, or even twenty or thirty-year-old me that this is who I would become, I don’t think any of them would have believed you.

And the funny thing is… I’ve learned this won’t be the final version of me either.

Years from now, I’ll probably look back at the man writing these words with the same appreciation I have for all the others. I’ll smile at what he knew, laugh at what he didn’t, and recognize that he was doing the best he could with the experiences he had.

Because maybe that is what life really is.

Not finding yourself. Becoming yourself. Again. And again. And again.

I’ve had several deaths in this lifetime. Thankfully, none of them were the last chapter. They were simply the end of one story and the beginning of another. That is an absolutely beautiful thing.

Remember, you only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough. Keep growing, keep learning, don’t be afraid to let go of the person you were so you can become the person you’re meant to be, and I’ll catch you next time.

Much love,
Rob ❤️