Messy is Just Another Word for Becoming | Meghann Dawson

I used to think becoming my best self meant achieving perfection—pristine choices, ideal timing, a life tied up in a neat little bow. I imagined the healed version of me as someone who had figured it all out. But life had other plans. Life had curveballs, detours, and outright chaos. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the ugliest moments are often where the most growth happens.

Take, for example, the moment I found out that the man who raised me wasn’t my biological father. I was 39. Grown. A mother myself. My world detonated with one phone call. All the self-work I’d done, all the healing I thought I’d mastered—gone. In an instant, I was back to square one, rebuilding an identity I thought was solid. It was messy, it was raw, and it was hard. But in that mess, I found clarity. I found healing. I found the deepest connections I’d ever known.

We love a comeback story, don’t we? We celebrate the underdog’s rise, the moment of triumph, the redemption arc that wraps up nicely by the credits. But what we don’t talk about are the messy middles. The moments of betrayal, the depths of depression, the suffocating weight of anxiety, addiction, self-destruction. We don’t talk about the rock bottoms because they aren’t pretty. And yet, they are universal.

For the first 30 years of my life, I kept the worst of me hidden. I wore a smile to mask my pain, convinced that if anyone saw the real me, they’d leave. I carried secrets like a backpack full of bricks, each one pressing me further into the ground. I searched for ways to numb—achievement, alcohol, relationships. None of it ever lasted. The pain always found its way back.

But something happened when I started to talk. When I let people see the parts of me I thought were unlovable. Instead of rejection, I found connection. Instead of shame, I found understanding. It turns out, the worst of me—the parts I feared sharing—were what resonated most with others. They didn’t turn away. They leaned in. We all have our mess. And when we stop pretending we don’t, that’s where real healing begins.

I came into this world broken. A staph infection at birth left my tiny body scarred and battered. My joints, my limbs—surgically altered in an attempt to make me whole. The physical damage was visible. Doctors had blueprints for how to fix me. But my soul? There was no roadmap for that. I was left to figure that part out on my own.

So I did. Over time, through trial and error, through therapy and meditation, through learning to listen to my own inner voice. Through embracing the law of attraction, letting go of shame, and recognizing that the universe had been guiding me all along. My healing didn’t come in a single epiphany. There was no one-and-done moment of clarity. It came in waves. In layers. In cycles of breaking and rebuilding, over and over again.

At 39, I thought I had cracked the code of life. I had a husband who loved me, a blended family I adored, a career I thrived in. Over lunch with my girlfriends, I joked that after decades of chaos and struggle, the second half of my life would probably be boring. The universe, with its dark sense of humor, said, “Not so fast.” A week later, I got the phone call that would begin the crumbling of the me I had so painstakingly put back together already.

The lessons never stop coming. The universe keeps showing up with new ways to shake me, to test me, to force me deeper into becoming. Every time I think I’m out of the mess, something comes along and pushes me right back in. Rinse and repeat.

For years, I was terrified of being found out—of people discovering the worst of me and deciding I wasn’t worth loving. But the opposite happened. When I let go of the weight of my secrets, when I told the truth, I found freedom. I found self-love. I found that we are all fucked up in one way or another, and the sooner we stop pretending otherwise, the lighter we become.

The sooner we accept the natural up and down flow of life, we are free.

One time, a shamanic massage therapist told me that the sheer number of bad things that had happened to me must mean I was a real asshole in a past life, racking up karmic debt. I really hope that’s not the case. But I do believe there’s purpose in the lessons I’ve learned, in the path I’ve walked. Maybe my purpose is to remind people that the mess isn’t something to escape—it’s something to embrace. Because messy? Messy is just another word for becoming.

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Meghann Dawson is a writer, speaker, podcast host and empowerment coach helping women turn their pain into power. A survivor of complex trauma, she blends authenticity, humor, and hard-won wisdom to guide others through healing and growth. As creator and host of the newly launched Becoming is Messy podcast, Meghann shares candid stories, insights, and strategies for embracing life’s beautifully imperfect journey. After 21 years as a cross-functional leader and growth strategist in the credit union industry, Meghann has recently made the leap to entrepreneurship, opening Meghann Dawson LLC, where she aims to help others foster resilience and self-acceptance. Seeking to turn the world’s mess into abundance. Connect with her at https://meghanndawson.com