The Person I Had to Become
- Carrie Woodcock
- 3 minutes ago
- 8 min read
As I sit in the garden writing this, there are only a few days left until the Summer Solstice Gathering.
The table in front of me was built by Dave. The journal I am writing in was gifted to me by Kalista. Both of them have spent countless hours helping bring this vision to life, and as I sit here reflecting, I find myself looking around at all of the pieces that have somehow come together over the past few months and wondering how I ever got lucky enough to be part of this story.
A few months ago, none of this existed.
The garden existed only in my imagination. The raised beds hadn't been built. The flowers weren't blooming. The vegetables weren't growing. The lights weren't hanging from the trees. The journal was still sitting on a store shelf somewhere, and the third volume of the Becoming series existed only as a manuscript on my computer. Now, somehow, all of those things are here. The first rose has bloomed on the trellis. The journal is waiting for its first entries. The garden is alive with growth. The books have arrived. In just a few days, people whose lives have crossed paths with mine over the years will gather together in this space.
Lately, I have found myself feeling something that is surprisingly difficult to describe. It isn't excitement, although there is certainly excitement. It isn't pride, although I am proud of what has been created. It isn't relief, even though there have been moments when I have looked around and thought, It's actually happening.
The closest word I can find is alignment—not the kind of alignment I write about in books or talk about in workshops, but the kind you recognize when you are actually living it.
There is a feeling that comes when things are right. Not perfect. Not easy. Not free from uncertainty. Just right. It feels a little like having the wind at your back instead of fighting against it. It feels like letting go of the need to force outcomes and discovering that life has begun unfolding in ways you never could have orchestrated yourself. It feels like reaching a point where you stop gripping so tightly and simply allow yourself to trust what is happening.
That is where I find myself right now.
A few weeks ago, the first rose bloomed.
I've been watching that climbing rose for months. Every week it stretched a little farther around the trellis near the garden gate, and when the first bloom finally opened, I found myself standing there much longer than I intended. Looking at it, I couldn't help but think about how much of life happens the same way. Growth is often invisible while it is taking place. We don't notice it day to day. Then one morning we look around and realize something beautiful has been quietly becoming what it was meant to be all along.
Around the same time, Kalista gave me a beautiful journal. The Tree of Life on the cover mirrors the design on the garden gate so perfectly that it feels as though they belong together. Originally, we planned to use it for planting notes and garden records, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized I didn't want a record of what had been planted nearly as much as I wanted a record of the people who passed through this space.
That thought brought me back to my dad.
Years ago, he kept a notebook in his hunting cabin where visitors would leave stories, sketches, observations, and memories. Over time, it became far more valuable than anyone could have anticipated because it became a collection of lives intersecting in one place. Even now, years after his passing, we still pull it out and read through the pages. There is something powerful about seeing a person's thoughts preserved in their own handwriting. It reminds you that while moments pass, stories have a way of staying.
As I thought about creating the Becoming Garden Journal, I realized that without ever intending to, I had brought a piece of my father's story into this one.
That realization stayed with me throughout the week, and perhaps that is why a simple walk through the garden affected me the way it did. One evening, while capturing the final twilight footage of the garden, I noticed something unusual moving alongside me as I walked toward the gate. I honestly don't know what it was, and I don't feel any particular need to explain it. What stayed with me wasn't the image itself but the feeling that accompanied it—a feeling that somehow my father's story was still walking beside me, woven into this place and this moment in a way I hadn't fully understood before.
The longer I sat with that feeling, the more I realized that none of these things exist independently of one another. The garden, the journal, the gathering, the books, my dad, the people who have helped bring all of this to life—they are all part of the same story.
And then, as if the universe wanted to add one more chapter, the books arrived.
Opening that box and seeing all three volumes of the Becoming series together for the first time was far more emotional than I expected. Writing happens slowly. It unfolds one page at a time, one conversation at a time, one season of growth at a time. Looking at the trilogy sitting there in front of me, I wasn't seeing books. I was seeing years of lessons, struggles, questions, conversations, failures, discoveries, and growth.
What made the timing even more interesting was a message that arrived that same day.
Years ago, when I first began sharing my story publicly, someone I cared about questioned whether it was worth telling at all. The comment hurt because it echoed questions I was already asking myself. Who do I think I am? Why would anyone care? What makes my story worth sharing?
Looking back now, I realize that wasn't the only criticism I carried. Over the years there were people who questioned whether what I was creating mattered, people who thought I should choose a more practical path, people who wondered when I would finally give up and get a normal job, and people who told me that what I was trying to grow would never amount to anything. There were moments as a musician when I would share something deeply personal and hear someone yell, "Just play something we can dance to." There were times when I planted seeds—both literally and metaphorically—and people were quick to explain why nothing would ever grow from them.
If I'm being honest, there were moments when those voices became my own.
I questioned myself more than once. I questioned whether I was capable enough, qualified enough, wise enough, and whether the work I was doing actually mattered. There were times when I wondered whether everyone else could see something I couldn't. There were moments when I seriously considered whether I should stop writing altogether.
What I find interesting now is that I don't feel resentment toward those experiences.
In many ways, I am grateful for them.
Every criticism forced me to return to my intentions. Every doubt required me to ask myself why I was doing this in the first place. Every challenge demanded that I decide whether I truly believed in the work when no one else was standing there validating it. Again and again, I was forced to step back, reflect, and decide for myself what mattered.
Each time I went through that process, I came back with a little more clarity and a little more confidence. Not because someone convinced me I was right, but because I had done the work of answering those questions for myself. Over time, I stopped needing other people to tell me who I was. I stopped needing them to approve of the path before I could walk it. I stopped waiting for permission.
Looking around now, I can't help but think about how different life would look if I had listened to every voice that told me to be smaller, safer, quieter, more practical, or easier to understand. The books wouldn't exist. The garden wouldn't exist. The gathering wouldn't exist. Most of the things that have brought the deepest meaning to my life over the past several years began as ideas that someone, somewhere, thought would never amount to much.
Thank goodness I didn't wait for permission.
Everything that exists today—the books, the garden, the gathering, the workshops, the podcast, the focus groups, the community, and the relationships that have grown around all of them—exists because at some point I decided that my story was worth telling simply because it was true.
The irony is that the message I received this week wasn't critical at all. It was quite the opposite. After years of silence, that same person reached out and mentioned that she had been following my work and everything I had been doing.
Maybe it was coincidence.
Maybe it wasn't.
What mattered to me was not the message itself but what it revealed.
The woman who once questioned whether she had any right to tell her story was holding the first manuscript. The woman sitting in this garden today is holding a completed trilogy.
That is a remarkable distance to travel.
As I sit here writing in this journal, four days before the garden gates open, I find myself thinking less about the books, the flowers, the decorations, or even the event itself than I am about the people.
The people who encouraged me when I wasn't sure of myself.
The people who challenged me and forced me to look more closely at what I believed.
The people who stayed.
The people who drifted away.
The people whose paths crossed mine for only a moment and still left a lasting mark.
The people who helped build this garden.
The people who helped shape the philosophy behind the books.
The people who unknowingly became part of the story.
When I look around now, I realize that every meaningful thing in my life has been created in relationship with other people. None of us become who we are alone. We are shaped by conversations, experiences, encouragement, heartbreak, criticism, friendship, love, and countless moments that seem insignificant while they are happening but reveal their importance years later.
Perhaps that is why this journal feels so meaningful to me.
Years from now, I know I will look back and remember the rose that bloomed on the trellis, the books arriving on the doorstep, the table Dave built, the journal Kalista gifted me, and the countless hours spent preparing this space. But more than any of those things, I want to remember the people.
I want to remember the stories.
So if you find yourself sitting in the Becoming Garden this Saturday, I hope you'll leave a piece of yours behind.
Tell me how our paths crossed.
Tell me what you remember.
Tell me what mattered.
Because long after the flowers have faded and the evening has passed, I have a feeling those stories will remain.
And somehow, as all of these pieces have come together over the past few weeks in ways I never could have planned, I find myself returning to the same thought again and again:
Everything about this feels exactly right.
Becoming, always returning,
Carrie
Founder, Total Transformation
NBC-HWC Health Coach