The Gentle Art of Becoming

Recently, I found myself in Sydney, wandering along Circular Quay. A huge cruise ship was docked, its towering presence casting a long shadow across the wharf, and tourists were doing what tourists do — drifting in clusters, taking photos, following tour guides with small flags or signs, absorbing everything with a kind of wide-eyed openness.

I had no particular agenda that morning. I was simply walking, letting my feet find their own pace. And that was when I heard her.

Off to one side, a young woman sat with an electric violin tucked under her chin, her bow moving with effortlessly. What poured out wasn’t classical or recognisable; it was the kind of music that seems to pulse from somewhere deep within the earth. My feet began tapping, my hips swayed a little. I stopped. I listened. And something inside me — something that lives closer to instinct than intention — whispered: Dance.

I walked over, placed some money in her case, and said, with a smile that felt almost too wide for my face, “Your music makes me want to dance.”

She beamed. “Oh, you can dance!” she said, sweeping her arm out toward the open space around us.

It was such a simple statement, so matter-of-fact.
Of course I could dance.
Of course the space was mine.
Of course the invitation was real.

And yet — I didn’t move.

Not because I didn’t want to. But because of something quieter, deeper, more familiar. A thread of conditioning woven through decades of being a woman in a culture that teaches its girls early and relentlessly:

Don’t draw attention to yourself.
Don’t make a spectacle of your body.
Don’t be too much.
Don’t take up space.

And so, I didn’t dance with my feet.

But I danced in my heart.

I softened into her music. I let it move inside me. Tears pricked unexpectedly, and I smiled — widely, openly, unapologetically — because even though my body stayed anchored to the ground, something in me was dancing, freely and without restraint.

And perhaps even more importantly: I did not berate myself for not dancing.

I didn’t call myself cowardly.
I didn’t scold myself for “missed opportunities.”
I didn’t shame the hesitation.
I didn’t demand instant transformation.

There was a time in my life — a long time — when I would have.

But on this morning, I simply allowed myself to be exactly where I was.

I stayed.
I listened.
I softened.
I let the music reach the places in me that were ready to be reached — no more, no less.

And the kindness I offered myself in that moment felt like its own kind of dance.
Soft.
Unhurried.
Born of deep knowing.

Because the truth is this: You cannot undo decades of conditioning in a single moment of courage.

Nor should you force yourself to.

The work of becoming — true becoming — doesn’t happen through pressure or force or emotional gymnastics. It happens slowly, gradually, almost imperceptibly, until one day the light is simply there and you realise you are standing in it.

The Gentle Work of Becoming

We have been sold, in so many ways, the myth of the dramatic transformation: the big leap, the grand gesture, the overnight change. And yet, if you pay attention to your actual lived experience, you’ll notice that your deepest shifts never happen that way.

They begin quietly.
Privately.
Softly.

Long before there is any external sign, something inside you reorients itself. A small courage awakens. A long-buried longing surfaces. A truth you’ve been avoiding finally speaks clearly.

What I’ve learned — and what Mycelatrix™ is built upon — is that real transformation does not rush.
It unfolds.

Just like mycelium beneath the forest floor, change spreads invisibly first. Networks form. New life stirs. Strength gathers quietly. And only later — sometimes much later — does something break the surface where others can see it.

This way of being isn’t passive. It isn’t avoidance. It is organic.
It is alive.
It is sustainable.

In the Mycelatrix™ world, everything grows from the inside out:

• Roots before fruit.

• Resonance before visibility.

• Inner movement before outer action.

This honours the truth that change has its own timing — just like my urge to dance did. The moment wasn’t wrong. My response wasn’t wrong. The internal dance was real, even if my feet remained still.

When we show ourselves kindness at these small, quiet thresholds, something profound happens. The old conditioning — the “don’t be seen,” the “don’t be too much,” the “don’t step out of line” — begins to loosen. Not shattered or destroyed (that, too, is a myth), but softened. Made porous. Rewritten from within.

And one day, without forcing anything, you may find yourself rising from the bench, stepping out into the open space, and dancing — not because you pushed yourself to “be brave,” but because something in you simply said: Now.

That is the Mycelatrix™ way.
That is becoming without breaking yourself open.

An Invitation to You

So let me ask you gently:

Where in your life are you longing to “dance,” but still learning to soften the conditioning that holds you still?

And more importantly:

What would it feel like to offer yourself the same kindness — the same spacious, Mycelatrix™ gentleness — as you take your next small step?

You don’t need to leap.
You don’t need to perform bravery.
You don’t need to “fix” decades of inherited patterns in one moment.

Let it unfold.
Let your heart move first.
Your feet will follow when they’re ready.

I’d love to hear from you.

If this reflection resonated with you — if you’ve had your own “almost-dancing” moments, or if you’re learning to be gentler with yourself as you grow — I invite you to share your thoughts in the comments below.

And if you’d like more reflections like this, alongside my ongoing work with Mycelatrix™, leadership, archetypes, and the quiet revolutions of self-awareness, you’re warmly welcome to subscribe to my newsletter for weekly insights.



Your voice, your journey, your unfolding — they matter here.