I let life get in the way.
It raced through and robbed me of my first love — writing. I wanted to speak my truth but self-doubt talked me out of it. I wanted to put pen to paper but fear of failure blocked me. I wanted to write, damn it.
A damaging assumption took root in my mind that made me believe every time I sat down to write, it needed to be some profound and earth-shattering prose that had to evoke some sort of emotion in every reader.
That shit is crippling. And nine times out of 10, it was the easiest way to turn me off from writing down even one word.
I can’t really pinpoint when or where it happened. Maybe it was the upset and excitement that comes from switching jobs. Or the overwhelming anxiety of moving across state lines and compromising my solitude in the process.
It also could’ve been the hopelessness and despair that resurfaces every time another person of color becomes a hashtag, or that it’s becoming increasingly apparent America is headed in reverse.
I can’t really pinpoint when or where it happened, but it siphoned out what remaining desire I had to create.
I sat on my words for months, sprinkling in half-hearted journal entries when the thoughts crowding my head space were too loud to carry.
But now I’m sick of giving the shitty shades of life so much power. The self-sabotage; the anxiety of not realizing my potential; the comparison to the next writer — which is always followed by a blow to my confidence.
I’m finding my way of wading through the mess and creating in spite of it.