A Little Bit Closer
Becoming Who We Wish We Were—Together
Wouldn’t it be something—if each of us could get just a little bit closer to the person we wish we were?
Not in some grand, performative way. Not by radically changing our lives overnight. But in small, quiet moments. Subtle shifts. A soft turning of the inner dial toward a version of ourselves we actually like being around. A self that feels honest, awake, and—perhaps most importantly—possible.
“We are what we repeatedly do,” Aristotle reminds us. “Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.” What if becoming better doesn’t require transformation as much as attention? Attention to the slight adjustments available in each passing moment.
It might be one extra moment of patience with your child. One kind word that you didn’t need to say, but said anyway. One moment of presence instead of distraction. One fewer act of judgment—of others, or of yourself.
These gestures are small, almost invisible. But small things compound. A slightly better self leads to slightly better interactions. Slightly better children. Slightly better families. Slightly better communities. And over time, better generations. Exponentially better, if we’re lucky—or just consistent.
As Kierkegaard wrote, “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” We rarely know the impact of a kind act when it’s given, but we understand its weight in hindsight. This is the quiet math of goodness.
It’s tempting to think growth requires strong opinions, fixed goals, and bulletproof certainty. But maybe it’s more about humility. The humility to accept that we don’t really know who we want to be—we discover it as we become it. And more often than not, the path forward is lit by the example of others who dared to be open, generous, and real.
“No man ever steps in the same river twice,” said Heraclitus. “For it is not the same river, and he is not the same man.” We are not meant to be fixed selves. We are meant to be unfolding—fluid, changing, learning, sometimes aching, sometimes blooming.
And that’s part of the gift we can give each other: not rigid advice or perfect answers, but a kind of presence that helps others feel free enough to explore their own unfolding. To say, I don’t know who I’ll become, but I want to be someone I respect. Someone whose life leaves traces of gentleness behind.
Imagine a society made up of people who didn’t pretend to be finished. Who didn’t feel pressure to perform certainty, or mistake ambition for worth. Imagine if our collective aim wasn’t to be right, or strong, or safe, but to be real. To be evolving. To be gently, persistently better.
As Carl Jung wrote, “The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.” And becoming is rarely loud. It’s a quiet, almost sacred process. It doesn’t require spectacle—only a willingness to participate in your own becoming, and to support others in theirs.
We live in a world obsessed with outcomes—followers, achievements, goals hit and boxes checked. But what if we measured our days not by accomplishment, but by contribution? How often did we choose generosity over withdrawal? How often did we ask, How can I help? instead of What can I get?
This is where real culture begins. Not in institutions or declarations, but in the small, often invisible decisions we make every day—to love, to listen, to hold space for others’ paths, even when they differ from our own.
We don’t need to become saints. We don’t need to be healed to begin helping. We only need to care enough to try. To offer that one extra smile. That extra listening ear. That word of encouragement. That model of integrity—not to prove we’ve figured it out, but to say: I’m working on it too.
Because when you zoom out far enough, you see that history changes by accumulation. Drops filling the bucket. Threads woven into fabric. Quiet efforts that, over time, become movements. Generations shaped not by perfection, but by the compounding power of imperfect, consistent love.
And maybe that’s the point—to become just a little bit better, together.