It Took Me 11 Years to Write This Post
2/14/2025
Before you Read:
This post was a Valentine's Day present to myself.
Not the flowers-and-chocolates kind but the ripping-off-the-bandaid kind that makes you stretch, reach, and grow.
Heavier than my standard fare and way harder to share but it's my first post because it makes everything else after easier.
I'm snuggled in the corner of my living room sectional.
I'm staring at a blank screen and blinking cursor staring back at me.
I draw a blank.
I am not a writer.
I don’t even know what to write about.
I have nothing to say.
I'm not very interesting.
No one will read it.
Or someone will read it but they won’t like it.
Or they will...
But if they do, how long until I disappoint them?
What if I try and try but I just can’t connect?
What if I’m not enough?
But…
What happens if I don’t?
I keep waiting.
Another year passes.
Another 11 years pass.
Asking for permission that'll never be granted.
Waiting for the right moment that'll never come.
Keeping busy to avoid doing the important.
Collecting more half-filled journals, more almost-started things.
Until one day I realize I’ve spent my whole life staying Small. Safe. Invisible.
All because I didn’t believe in my own story.
Because I couldn't muster the courage to start.
I'm back at the blank screen and the blinking cursor.
I type.
I hit publish.
I am a writer.