By Jeff Kangar

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to move forward, not just in motion but in depth. There’s a difference between escaping and evolving. Sometimes we confuse the two. I know I have.

I wrote something not long ago:

“Sometimes ‘busy’ is just our way of hiding. But you can’t outrun yourself. Sit with your thoughts. Get real. It’s the only way through.”

I meant every word.

Truth is, I’ve been running. Running from moments I didn’t want to face. From feelings I didn’t want to admit. From realities I hoped would just fix themselves over time. But time doesn’t heal what we refuse to acknowledge. Time only moves. Healing takes work.

And that’s where this part of the journey begins.

I am becoming.

There are days I walk into a room and wonder, are they looking at me funny? Do I need to adjust my tone? Should I posture up or shrink down?

These thoughts don’t always say themselves out loud, but they’re there. That silent audit I perform before I open my mouth. Before I sit. Before I simply exist.

All those thoughts… they may feel real, but they’re often irrational. They don’t come from truth. They come from a history that taught me to defend my presence before it’s even questioned.

I battle myself every day to change that perspective. To stop scanning for problems and start settling into my own skin. Not someone else’s perception of me. Just me.

I am becoming.

I’ve been passed up for promotions. Pay raises. Recognition.

I’ve watched people around me get rewarded while I did everything right. I worked hard. I delivered. I adapted. I welcomed feedback, both the kind that builds and the kind that stings. Still, nothing.

And it leaves you wondering, why do I always have to leave to feel valued?

Why do I have to prove my worth by walking away?

But even in that question, I find something steady.

I am becoming.

Not bitter. Not broken. Just more aware. Sharper. More rooted in what I bring to the table, regardless of who chooses to see it.

Being a Black man means navigating a world that asks more of you than it gives. It means constantly recalibrating. Being excellent just to be seen as average. Being exhausted but told to smile anyway. Told to be strong without breaking. To be available without needing.

It wears on you.

But it doesn’t end you.

I am becoming.

Becoming someone who accepts what has happened, not with defeat, but with clarity. Someone who builds better habits, not for perfection, but for peace. Someone who doesn’t hide behind “busy,” but slows down enough to heal.

And I’ve learned this too: it’s okay to isolate when the noise gets too loud. It’s okay to step away and figure things out on your own. But it’s also okay to lean on the people who actually have your back, if you have them. I know not everyone does.

A lot of relationships today feel transactional.

People stick around as long as the well’s full. But when it runs dry?

Gone.

That’s why having even just one person who gets it, who doesn’t need an explanation, who sees you and checks in anyway, is a blessing. Someone who doesn’t drain your energy but protects it. Who tells you the truth when you need to hear it, not just when it’s easy to say.

That kind of presence matters.

I am becoming.

Not just more self-aware, but more selective. More intentional with who I give my energy to. Because not everyone deserves access. Not everyone has your light in mind. Some people only show up to dim it.

And you can feel it.

That shift in your chest, the quiet knowing when the energy’s off.

That’s your cue. Not to fight, but to protect.

It’s okay if you can’t see the tunnel right now.

What matters is believing the light is still somewhere ahead, waiting.

It’s okay to not have it all figured out.

But trust this: you are figuring it out.

You’re moving.

You’re becoming.

And it takes work. Real work.

The kind of work that doesn’t get applause.

The kind of work no one sees but you.

But that’s where the change happens.

That’s where the healing begins.

That’s where you begin.

That’s where the vision becomes real. Not overnight. But over time. With grace. With effort.

So no, I don’t have it all figured out.

But I’m no longer running.

I’m listening.

I’m learning.

I’m facing it.

I am becoming.