Master of Becoming

For the ones who can’t pick a lane—only set the whole map on fire.

I’ve worn more hats than a vintage thrift store mannequin on payday.
Juggled so many roles I’ve started introducing myself as “formerly known as me.”
Improv comedy on Tuesdays, band practice on Thursdays, teaching teenagers the minor pentatonic on weekends like it’s sacred scripture.
Surfing when the lake allows—lungs burning, tongue tasting algae and adrenaline.
Yoga when my back protests.
Breathwork when my brain does that thing where it forgets how to be quiet.

And somehow, in the chaos of it all, I still text back with a little too much punctuation.
Still smile at strangers like they might be angels in disguise.
Still try to keep the dinner plans I made when I was in a more optimistic mood.

People love to say jack of all trades, master of none like it’s a diagnosis.
A gentle insult dressed in folklore.
But the full quote—the real one?
It ends with: “but oftentimes better than master of one.”
They always leave that part out.
Because it doesn’t serve the narrative.
Because maybe it threatens the comfort of those who picked a path and stayed.

But some of us are born with too many songs in our mouths to only sing one.

I’ve never wanted to be great at one thing.
I wanted to be undeniable at feeling it all.

I want to write a sketch that makes someone laugh and cry in the same breath.
I want to teach a kid a riff that makes them fall in love with their own fingers.
I want to surf badly, but beautifully.
Fall off with flair.
And get back up wetter, wiser.

Some days I invent new numbers like a Crayola freak with a color kink—
Burnt Stardust, Heavy Silence, Tired But Golden.
I don’t even know what they’re for yet.
But I name them anyway.
Because naming says, this matters—even if no one else sees it yet.

I don’t master crafts.
I master feelings.
Energy.
Timing.
The art of walking into a room and knowing who’s on the verge of tears, who just fell in love, who needs one honest sentence to stay alive another day.

Call it dabbling if you must.
But I’ve touched more lives with my half-finished poems than some do with perfect résumés.

And here’s the part I don’t usually admit—
Some days I envy the ones who picked a lane.
The ones who get to arrive.
Because being everything sometimes feels like being nothing.
Like you’re rehearsing a hundred lives and dying in each one a little.
But I’d still rather ache from expansion than rot in certainty.

I’m not a jack of all trades.
I’m a map of many possible lives.
And I’m living them all a little bit at a time.

// Scorpio Veil
I don’t chase mastery.
I eat the fruit of every path I almost took.
And sometimes, the juice stains my teeth just right.