What Does Personal Growth Look Like?

Busting the Myth of the Polished Self

Jul 01, 2025

Last month, my very first book was published. Almost immediately, it won an award.

It still feels surreal to say that.

I had been working on that book for years. Quietly. Tentatively. Always with the lingering fear that I wasn’t good enough. That script, the one which repeatedly whispers “I’m not enough”, had lived in me for as long as I could remember. It played like background music through my childhood and echoed into adulthood, shaping how I showed up in the world.

And then there was the shame. Shame about my life. About the grief I had carried silently for so long. About all the ways I had failed to become the woman I once dreamt of being.

For years, I held back. Not because I didn’t have stories to tell, but because I believed those stories weren’t worthy of being heard. I had internalised the myth of the polished self: the idea that unless you’ve healed completely, arrived fully, achieved perfectly, you have no business being seen.

But take a moment and ask yourself this. What do you really know about personal growth?

Think of the version we’re sold by charlatans disguised as self-help gurus, by an industry obsessed with optics. The kind that’s bathed in filtered light, set against minimalist backdrops, and captioned with empty affirmations. The kind of growth that looks good on Instagram.

But is that what growth really looks like?

Or does it look more like a chaotic tangle of emotions, heartbreaks, detours, jagged edges, and broken dreams stitched together with trembling hope?

This essay has been simmering in me for months. Just like my dance with doubt before publishing my book, I’ve hovered over the idea of writing this piece many times, and every time it has ended up in opening a blank page, staring, and deleting. Again and again.

So the fact that I’m sitting here, writing these words, that, to me, is growth. What once sent me spiralling into anxiety now only causes a flicker of discomfort. And that flicker is enough of a shift to feel like something sacred.

That is what personal growth looks like to me - raw, recursive, messy, and deeply human.

And that’s exactly what I want to explore in this essay.

Growth Is Not a Glow-Up

Let’s be honest. We’ve been sold a lie. A well-curated one, dressed in pastel colours, scented candles, green smoothies, and captioned with #healingjourney. Somewhere along the way, personal growth got rebranded into something aesthetic, digestible, and performative. A “glow-up.”

But real growth doesn’t always glow.

It’s not a filtered before-and-after photo. It’s not a neatly made bed with an open journal and a latte by the window. And it’s definitely not the kind of self-care that involves spending money you don’t have on skincare routines and fancy retreats.

Sometimes, growth looks like crawling out of bed, when every fibre of your body wants to cling to its safety, and then dragging yourself up and brushing your teeth anyway.

Sometimes it’s saying no, even when your voice trembles and everything inside you fears rejection.

Sometimes it’s letting go of a version of yourself that once felt safe, even if that version was crafted from survival and silence.

Growth is not always soft. Often, it’s jagged. It scrapes off your old beliefs and leaves you raw. Carl Jung wrote, “There is no coming to consciousness without pain.” And Brené Brown reminds us that vulnerability, the birthplace of growth, often feels more like exposure than empowerment.

bell hooks said it more plainly, “Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion.” And yet, the most pivotal parts of growth often happen in solitude, in the quiet, unglamorous work of learning to sit with ourselves, unearth old wounds, and re-parent the frightened child within.

Personal growth isn’t about becoming prettier, calmer, or more likeable. It’s about becoming truer. And truth doesn’t always come with good lighting.

So, no. Growth is not a glow-up. It’s a stripping down. A coming home to the self, not as the world wants to see you, but as you actually are.

The Invisible Markers of Growth

Now, let’s come to the heart of this essay. What are the signs of growth?

Do you look different? Do you feel transformed? Is there a new light in your eyes, a radiance that others can see?

Well, yes. And no.

Most of the markers of real, enduring growth are invisible. They don’t announce themselves with applause or aesthetics. They seep into the corners of your everyday life. Quietly. Slowly. Often, unacknowledged by anyone but yourself.

The first time I felt I had truly grown wasn’t when someone praised me. It wasn’t when I reached a milestone or even when I published my book. It was when I found myself dreaming of solitude, not as loneliness, but as liberation. I imagined a life where my daughter had gone to college, where my parents no longer needed me in the same way, and where I, at last, could live the vagabondish life I had always secretly longed for. That dream didn’t stem from emptiness or abandonment. It came from a place of quiet fullness, from the realisation that I was enough to carry myself through the world.

But dreams are only one part of it. Because while growth may begin in your inner world, it eventually wants to make a home in your daily life. And that’s where the more subtle, often unnoticed signs begin to appear.

You see, growth doesn’t always show up in grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s as small and significant as pausing before reacting. Taking a breath. Choosing silence over a sharp retort. Choosing truth over appeasement.

It’s apologizing sincerely, not out of shame, but from a desire to repair connection. And it’s also knowing when not to apologise. When to stop saying sorry for taking up space, for having needs, for changing your mind, for being who you are.

It’s in setting boundaries, not with drama, but with clarity. Not with guilt, but with self-respect. Without the need to over-explain or soften yourself to be more palatable.

These moments don’t come with fanfare. No one claps when you say no for the first time without flinching. There are no awards for the first time you choose rest over obligation. Often, people don’t even notice. Sometimes, they push back. They miss the old you, the one who was more pliable, easier to please or manipulate, easier to predict.

But that resistance is, in itself, a sign that something has shifted.

Because growth is not about being more liked. It’s about being more true.

So if you’re wondering whether you’ve grown, don’t look at your selfies. Look at your reactions. Your choices. Your quiet, inner monologue. Look at the dreams that are beginning to feel possible.

That’s where the real transformation lives.

Regression Is Part of Progress

Now, to the slightly more difficult part of growth — regression.

Unlike physical growth, which we can chart in inches or kilos, emotional and personal growth is maddeningly non-linear, deeply messy, and almost impossible to measure. And in a world that worships metrics, where everything from productivity to healing is expected to be tracked, visualised, and “optimized”, this kind of growth often goes unseen. It’s not just invisible; it’s uncelebrated. Unacknowledged. Sometimes even doubted by the very person living it.

You will grow quietly, at times so slowly that it feels like nothing is changing. You’ll inch forward like a glacier, which is heavy, deliberate, and seemingly still, until you look back and realise you’ve crossed an entire terrain. And then, there will be seasons when growth feels like a waterfall that is wild, rapid, exhilarating. You’ll surprise yourself with your capacity, your strength, your newfound clarity.

But perhaps the most misunderstood part of growth is what happens when the momentum stalls. When you slip. When old habits return. When you find yourself back in a place you thought you had left behind.

It’s in these moments that regression feels like failure.

But it isn’t.

My gym instructor once told me that growth lies outside your comfort zone. He was referencing the barbell, 80 pounds of intimidation, that I flat-out refused to lift. No matter how much he coaxed, my fear won. When he finally gave up, he muttered that classic gym bro mantra, “No pain, no gain.”

At the time, I rolled my eyes. But later, I sat with those words. And they took on a new shape.

Real growth does come with discomfort, but not always the kind that looks noble or strong. Sometimes the discomfort is regression itself. Sometimes the pain is facing a version of yourself you thought you’d outgrown. Sometimes it’s realising that healing is not a straight line, but a spiral staircase. You return to familiar pain, but from a higher perspective.

And that’s what matters.

You’re not back where you started. You’re revisiting the old terrain with new tools, new insight, and maybe just enough self-compassion to do things differently this time.

Regression isn’t a sign that you’ve failed. It’s a necessary part of integration.

Growth doesn’t mean never faltering again. It means faltering less violently. Recovering faster. Being kinder to yourself when you do.

So the next time you catch yourself repeating a pattern, don’t say, “I thought I was past this.” Say, “I see it more clearly now.”

Because seeing it clearly, that’s growth, too.

Growth Looks Different on Everyone

There is no universal blueprint for growth.

We talk about it as if it’s a singular path, one we all walk the same way, with the same milestones and markers. But the truth is, growth wears a different face for each of us. It speaks a different language. It moves at its own pace, shaped by who we are, where we come from, and what we’ve had to survive.

Cultural expectations, gender roles, and neurodivergent experiences all influence how growth manifests and how it is misunderstood.

For some, growth is visible: a breakup, a move, a new job, a spiritual awakening. For others, it’s deeply internal, unglamorous, slow, and invisible to everyone but themselves. It might look like saying “I need help” for the first time. Or getting out of bed when depression has turned your body into a cage. Or simply not spiralling in a moment when you used to.

For survivors of trauma, growth may look like staying silent, not because they can’t speak, but because they’ve finally chosen where and to whom they will give their voice. For someone who has lived in survival mode, rest can be the most radical act of all. For someone conditioned to please, saying “no” is nothing short of a revolution.

And still, the world often misses these moments. Because they’re quiet. Because they don’t fit neatly into the performative, self-optimizing narratives we’ve been fed.

But that doesn’t make them any less valid.

If your growth doesn’t look like everyone else’s, good. It means you’re being honest. It means you’re listening to yourself, not to the noise.

You don’t need to run marathons, start businesses, become more productive, or suddenly feel "healed" to prove that you’re evolving.

You get to define your own metrics. You get to name your own victories.

Maybe today, growth means crying after holding it in for too long. Maybe it means laughing without guilt. Maybe it means sending the text. Or not sending it. Maybe it means not needing to explain yourself anymore, even to the people closest to you.

Whatever it looks like, let it be yours.

There is no one right way to grow. There is only your way.

Anchors Along the Way

Growth is not just about pushing forward. It’s also about knowing how to stay grounded when everything inside you feels unsteady. Because transformation, no matter how necessary, can also be disorienting. Letting go of the old self, the old patterns, the old stories, even when they were painful, can leave you feeling untethered.

That’s why anchors matter.

For me, there have been quiet, consistent practices that have kept me rooted through every unraveling and re-emerging. Journaling has been one of them — not the kind meant for perfect prose or public reading, but the kind where I dump the mess. The pages have held rage, grief, loneliness, longing. And slowly, they’ve given me back clarity.

Therapy, too, has been an anchor, not because it gave me answers, but because it gave me space. A room where I didn’t have to perform, explain, or minimize. Just be.

And then there’s solitude. The kind that heals, not isolates. Sitting alone in a quiet room, watching the light shift across the wall, drinking a cup of coffee slowly, intentionally. It reminds me that I exist beyond my roles, my responsibilities, my fears.

Creative work has also saved me more times than I can count. Writing, especially, has been my way of making meaning out of chaos. Writing is a release for me, a way to turn pain into something with shape and texture. And when I couldn’t do it alone, friendships stepped in. I have nursed relationships of the rare kind that don’t demand a curated version of me. Just the truth of who I was, however raw, however unfinished.

These are my anchors. They don’t stop the storms, but they remind me I won’t be swept away.

I believe everyone needs their own. Not because growth is a race or a checklist, but because it’s hard to walk through change without something to hold onto.

Maybe for you, it’s movement that involves yoga, long walks, dancing barefoot in your room. Maybe it’s prayer. Or playlists. Or cooking. Or painting. Or simply learning to pause and breathe before the world gets too loud.