I didn’t know leaving home would make me question myself this much.

At home, I was always someone’s child. Someone checked on me. Someone noticed if I didn’t eat. If I was quiet, someone asked why. Life felt guided, even when I complained about it.

Now I’m at uni and nobody is really watching.

No one tells me when to sleep. No one reminds me to study. No one asks if I’m okay unless I say it first. And sometimes I don’t even know how to say it.

Some days independence feels good. I like choosing for myself. I like the freedom. I like feeling grown.

Other days, it feels heavy.

Like I’m carrying too much and I don’t know who to hand it to.

I catch myself missing home in small ways. The noise. The routine. The feeling of being safe without trying. Here, everything depends on me. If I fail, it’s on me. If I succeed, it’s also on me. That part scares me more than I admit.

I’m learning that independence isn’t confidence all the time. Sometimes it’s crying quietly and still going to class the next day. Sometimes it’s eating whatever you can afford and calling it a meal. Sometimes it’s feeling lost and pretending you’re fine.

I don’t fully know who I am without home yet.

I’m still adjusting. Still learning. Still messing up.

But I think I’m growing. Even when it doesn’t feel pretty. Even when it feels lonely.

Maybe this is what becoming looks like.

Messy. Uncertain. Honest.