I cleaned my room, as my parents demanded, otherwise it would have stayed a stye if I were left to my own devices. I scrambled through a few things, and then came across the loose leaf pages that were filled with a magical story I had concocted in a world that didn’t exist. I had spent hours, writing and thinking and creating. I laughed at my own jokes and admired the thoughtful interactions I had dreamt up. These words filled with stories of tears and love kept spewing out of me until my hand cramped from the pressure to record every thought, every giggle, every anecdote, unaware that I had found my calling. The moments when I felt most alive.
I was only 12 at the time.
I looked through the pages, and in my despair and lack of self, I crumbled them between my hands, each and every page I came across. My very first book – gone. I didn’t believe I could be a writer and producer then; who was I to believe I could write? Who was I to think I could share untold stories and create glorious moments that I had yet to endure?
As an adult, I think back on this particular moment often and remember looking at my work lying at the bottom of the garbage bag. I deemed it worthless – unworthy of being shared. I was young, but I lacked faith in my abilities and what was attainable.
Writing was suppose to be left to the greats – Hemingway, Wolfe, Dickins, Morrison, Angelou – and even for sometime, it was suppose to left to real bloggers and influencers in this sphere, not me.
But no matter where I turned, it always led me one place. With a pen in my hand.
So I gave myself some wiggle room – to dabble, to create for the heck of it because it’s what I adored so immensely. It was my way of sharing, when my voice failed me. Growing up, and even today, there were many times when it did and continues to. Yet, I find solace in this space of typing and journaling, being so vulnerable and exposed without a loss for words or metaphors.
I have fully given myself permission to go all in – to write and share and to be present in this journey. I don’t want to crumble up my stories and throw them to the waste side anymore. I am designed to share.
What are you destined to do? Have you ever held yourself back from chasing those dreams?
