Founder’s Diary Notes — Issue #001
The Slow Burn of Becoming Yourself
Identity isn’t a sprint. It’s a simmer. Most of us aren’t fireworks—we’re embers.
Hi, it’s Achla. I make skincare for a living, but I think about time even more than texture. Because the truth is: skin changes slowly—and so do we. Lately I’ve been meeting people (customers, friends, founders) who whisper the same worry: “I should’ve figured myself out by now.” I want this letter to sit with that feeling and offer another way to see it. Think of this as a cup-of-chai kind of newsletter. No rush. No performance. Just you, me, and an honest look at the slow burn of becoming.
— Achla
Why “arrive” is such a tempting myth:
We grow up inside helpful shortcuts. School timetables. Job titles. Family expectations. Social media bios that pretend a person can be summed up in 160 characters. These are useful—until they start to pinch. In our twenties, many of us wear a hand-me-down map. The routes are familiar, the landmarks approved. It gets us moving, but eventually a quiet friction appears: Do I want this because I want it—or because it was nearby and everyone clapped? The question rarely announces itself. It shows up between meetings. In the pause after a yes. In the relief when something gets cancelled. No drums, no lightning. Just a soft, persistent tug.
Becoming is less “epiphany,” more “evidence”:
We love origin stories with neat turning points. In real life, identity looks more like a folder of small files added over years. A conversation that won’t leave you. A hobby you guard like a secret. The job that sounded perfect but left you flat. The relationship that made you smaller than your own voice. Each moment is a data point. Put together, they teach you your shape. Not once and for all, but better than before. It’s humbling to admit, “I was wrong about me.” It’s also lightening. Every time you set down a borrowed piece, you travel easier.
The timeline no one sells you:
We live in a world that can deliver groceries in 10 minutes and opinions in 10 seconds. Beautiful for dinner. Terrible for self-knowledge. The person you’re becoming doesn’t respond to push notifications. Think fermentation, not flash fry. Batter needs time to rise. Tea needs time to steep. Terracotta needs slow sun. If you force heat, things collapse in the middle. Maturity isn’t an age gate or a milestone checklist. It’s the long conversation between who you’ve been and who you’re willing to try being next.
Nature’s preferred speed:
A mango doesn’t ripen because you stare at it. Tree rings don’t show up because you hit “refresh.” The monsoon arrives in its season—early for some, late for others—always on time for itself. We’re the same. Most of us aren’t fireworks. We’re embers. We keep taking in air—books, people, failures, therapy, faith, art, quiet—and the glow deepens. It doesn’t always photograph well, but it keeps you warm. It keeps you.
The awkward middle (you’re not alone):
There’s a phase where you’re no longer the person you were and not yet the person you’re growing into. Old labels slide off. New ones don’t stick. It’s itchy. You’ll try on identities that look great on someone else. You’ll compare your behind-the-scenes with someone else’s carefully edited front page. You’ll wonder if everyone except you got a memo. They didn’t. Most people are practicing in private. No one posts the years spent unlearning. But those are often the decisive ones.
You’re allowed to (in case you need it):
- You may take your time.
- You may change your mind.
- You may outgrow versions you swore were permanent.
- You may rest without calling it quitting.
- You may set kinder boundaries and call it progress.
“Some parts of you arrive only after enough seasons have said hello. Patience isn’t passive; it’s confident.”
What “arrival” actually looks like:
It’s quieter than you think. It sounds like a “no” that doesn’t tremble. It looks like blocking your calendar for what matters and not apologizing. It feels like choosing work that respects your nervous system. It tastes like dinner eaten warm because you’re not negotiating with your own hunger. One day you’ll notice your choices line up without the usual debate. You’ll recognize your voice instantly. You’ll like your company—and not because you perfected yourself, but because you softened around what’s true.
A small practice for the week:
- Name the nudges. Each evening, write one tiny moment that felt like you today. Not your most productive self—your most honest self. A sentence is enough.
- Return the hand-me-down. List one expectation that no longer fits. Write a thank-you to the season it served, then place it back on the shelf. You’re not rejecting your past; you’re releasing it.
- Make a 2-degree turn. Choose the smallest next step toward the life that feels like home. Email. Walk. Boundary. Bedtime. Texture over drama.
A note from the lab (because skin teaches, too):
Barrier repair doesn’t go viral in a day. It’s subtle, consistent, and more about steadiness than spectacle. The same is true of becoming. Keep what is gentle and repeating; that’s where change hides.
If you’re in the middle right now—tired of waiting to “arrive”—consider this letter a hand on your shoulder. The fire is working, even if it’s not Instagrammable. When the person you’re growing into steps forward, they’ll feel new and strangely familiar—like someone you’ve known your whole life.
With you in the slow burn,
Achla
Founder, The Skin Beneath
Formulations for honesty + healing + homeostasis.
P.S. If this met you where you are, hit reply and tell me one small truth you’re choosing this week. I read every note.
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