Becoming Jane

Who am I becoming?

I find myself asking this on the cusp of entering 2026, standing at the threshold of a new chapter. I wrote the first lines of this piece late at night, aware of time in a way that felt both grounding and unsettling—not as certainty, but as the sense that something was ending, and something else was beginning.

I’ve had the title Becoming Jane in my head since Jane Goodall passed last year, and I don’t really know why.

I’ve always admired and respected Jane, but only from a distance. She was simply… there. Quiet. Steady. A presence.

My mother adored her—and Africa—and even met Jane once. There’s a photograph of the two of them on a shelf above the TV at my parents’ house. But it’s not the photograph that stays with me. It’s my mother’s admiration—the way Jane stood up for those who could not defend themselves, and did so with a quiet, unwavering resolve that made you pay attention.

I never felt drawn to study her deeply until this title refused to leave me alone.

While reading up on her, I discovered that in 2019, National Geographic opened a traveling exhibit called Becoming Jane, based on her life’s work. It’s still touring the U.S. The coincidence stopped me—not because it felt mystical, but because it felt confirming. As if this question of becoming wasn’t mine alone.

Christmas 2025 — Ka’anapali Beach, Maui, Hawaii

Like the titles—and the songs I pair with my Instagram reels—that have arrived over the course of Odisea’s evolution, I’ve learned that I don’t choose these things. They come to me. And then I follow.

I’m no longer resisting that. I’m no longer letting the logic that governed the last 20 years of my life override this next chapter I’ve been given the opportunity to live. A line has been murmuring in my head lately: There is almost no such thing as ready. There is only now. And I think I’m finally beginning to live that way, imperfectly, of course.

The things I’m doing to prepare for this next chapter aren’t boxes I’m checking off a to-do list—they’re things I genuinely want to do to set myself up for success in the life I’m building. Learning Spanish isn’t essential, but I want to belong—to be part of the community I’m choosing to join, not someone passing through expecting others to adapt to me.

I’m finishing a Teaching English as a Foreign Language credential because I need a way to support myself. And I think I’ll enjoy being a teacher. A gentler rhythm. More presence. Less urgency.

I’ve started living as if I’m moving this summer: cleaning out closets, selling corporate clothes and sky-high heels that no longer feel like me, figuring out what to do with my apartment, my plants, my cat. And like the titles and songs that find me, I’ve let these steps reveal themselves one by one along a slowly illuminating path.

And through a conversation with my teaching program advisor, I now know the city I’m moving to. Madrid came to me—not the other way around.

Christmas 2025 — Ka’anapali Beach, Maui, Hawaii

It’s almost as if this life is no longer entirely in my hands. Of course it is—I’m making choices, but there’s also something else at play. A pull. It shows up in insistent titles, songs I wake up with, looping in my head until I listen to them, dreams that arrive back to back. I think of it as breadcrumbs, drawing me forward along what I see in my mind as an illuminating path through colorful darkness.

When I look more closely at Jane’s life, I recognize something familiar. She arrived in Africa knowing nothing. She didn’t impose herself. She lived among the chimpanzees, observing patiently, allowing their world—their kingdom—to reveal itself to her. She waited. She trusted instinct and presence, and in doing so was invited in.

That quiet attentiveness became the foundation of an extraordinary life—one of service, yes, but also, I believe, of deep fulfillment.

I don’t know yet who I’m becoming. I’m moving forward—but shouldn’t I know? Sometimes it feels like peeling back the layers of an onion, each layer revealing a truth, a step, a glimmer underneath. My skills are evolving. My creativity. My capacity for patience, and perhaps even unconditional love.

And still—I’m afraid to fail.

I’m afraid of missing my chance, of being trapped by circumstances or decisions that aren’t mine. And yet, I’m not afraid to try. There is a part of me that knows I must move forward—even without answers—through grief, regret, and uncertainty.

Lately, I’ve started to see my life with the attention we give things we love when we know they won’t always be ours. Running a 5K through Golden Gate Park, I found myself looking around more carefully than usual: at the trees, the serpent sculpture, the early morning light, the shared excitement of runners of every age and shape. Friends ran together, families cheered, people wore shirts honoring loved ones, some even in ridiculous costumes. The mood was open, generous, joyful. This might be the last time I do this here, I thought. And instead of turning away from that feeling, I let it slow me down.

And then the questions came—not calmly, but urgently, almost like a quiet wail beneath my breath:

Do they have races in Madrid?
Will I run them?
Will I still be me there?
Will it be a life that lights me up?

A view that never gets old — Crissy Field, San Francisco, California

Jane followed me through the end of 2025—a year of completing and releasing an older version of myself. And now, as I step into this next chapter, she seems to be emerging alongside me. I’ve spent weeks reflecting, writing, sometimes grieving, sometimes feeling curious, afraid, and quietly excited about the life ahead. There’s a plan. There are immediate next steps. And others continue to reveal themselves—sometimes faster than I expect, even accelerating timelines I thought were fixed.

Lately, that momentum has felt both fascinating and unsettling. As if the universe is gently aligning things in front of me, asking whether I’m willing to meet them. There are moments when I want to dig my heels in and say, wait—slow down—I’m not ready. And then, almost immediately, that familiar line murmurs again: There is almost no such thing as ready. There is only now.

Jane didn’t begin her life’s work knowing where it would lead. She arrived with attention, patience, and a willingness to be present with what unfolded. I don’t yet know what my life will look like, or who I will become on the other side of this transition. I only know that something is emerging, quietly and steadily, and I’m learning to trust it.

It’s still evolving. Like me. And that’s… okay.