Versions of Me: And the Woman I Keep Becoming

Versions of Me: And the Woman I Keep Becoming

It’s midnight in Japan , yes, pakati pehusiku (in the middle of the night) and here I am, wide awake with my cup of chamomile tea, staring at the ceiling like I’m waiting for an answer from the universe. I was supposed to be asleep an hour ago, but somehow, my mind decided it was the perfect time to do a full PowerPoint presentation of my past lives, all the versions of me I’ve quietly outgrown.

Earlier today, I stumbled upon some old photos. You know the kind, over-filtered selfies, forced smiles, questionable outfit choices (why did I ever think those skinny jeans were my personality?). But what caught my attention wasn’t the clothes or the poses; it was the thoughts I used to carry. The dreams I thought would save me. The things I used to cry about that now feel so distant they could be from another lifetime.

It’s strange, isn’t it? You live inside yourself every single day and still somehow don’t notice that you’re evolving. You only realise it when you look back and see how far you’ve come, how many small lives you’ve already lived within the same skin.

I remember a time I didn’t even like the girl I saw in the mirror. Ndaitozviona hangu sekuti handina basa (I honestly thought I didn’t matter). But now? I look at her with so much grace. Because she was doing the best she could with what she had. And that version of me walked so that this one could finally breathe.

Maybe that’s the beauty of growing up, you keep meeting yourself at different seasons of life, each version holding a lesson, a heartbreak, a breakthrough. I’ve been the dreamer, the doubter, the doer, and the one who just needed a nap and a prayer.

And oh, the prayers! I’ve whispered so many to God in the quiet, from “Lord, please make a way,” to “Lord, thank you for the way.” Every version of me has had a conversation with Heaven, and I think that’s what kept me grounded. Faith has a funny way of turning your fear into fuel, doesn’t it?

Someone once said, “You are a mosaic of everyone you’ve ever met.” I believe that. From ambuya who used to call me musikana akanaka (beautiful girl) to my high school teacher who said, “Jez, I see something in you,” to the random stranger in Harajuku who complimented my outfit,  all those people added a tile to who I am today.

We are all walking mosaics, breaking and becoming, and somehow still whole.

So tonight, before I finally close my eyes, I’ll sip on my chamomile tea, whisper a small prayer of gratitude, and smile, because I know tomorrow, I’ll wake up as another version of me. Still learning. Still growing. Still me.

And if you’re reading this, I hope you remember: every version of you mattered. Even the messy, confused, “I don’t know what I’m doing” one. She’s part of your mosaic too.

Now, ngandinyarare zvangu (let me rest quietly) before I end up writing a full autobiography at 1 a.m.

“You don’t notice yourself growing until one day you realise the prayers you once cried are now your reality.”