The Scaffold and the Self

What building taught me about layers, structure, and becoming

A scaffold is not the building.

It was never meant to be.

It is a frame.

A quiet helper.

A structure made to disappear.

I don't see chaos when I walk a job site wrapped in scaffolding.

I see becoming.

Wood, steel, and stone are all supported and unfinished.

And I've come to believe:

We are no different.

We are not born steady.

We grow, braced by temporary things.

It's a morning ritual.

An old teacher's words.

A habit we cling to when the wind picks up.

These are our scaffolds: simple, strong, and, when the time is right, meant to be let go.

I used to think progress was loud.

Now I know: it's often quiet.

The work of the self is like construction, layered, imperfect, full of pauses.

We rise slowly.

We fall and reframe.

And all along, something in us begins to take shape.

Not the scaffold.

But the structure within.

One day, the scaffold is no longer needed.

And what remains is you.

Not finished—never finished!

But standing.

Rooted.

Built.

Field Note:

Scaffolding is meant to come down.

The real work is becoming what can stand without it.