I’m a failure. I failed at my goal to write every day. It got difficult to think of things to write. I felt like I wasn’t writing anything worth reading. I felt like an imposter. Who am I to hold myself out as an expert? To think that I might have anything to add to the conversation about mental health.
This is why I admire artists and writers and even social media influencers, they believe they have something worth hearing to say. They believe that others will want to know what they think or feel or believe.
It’s so hard for me to believe that. Actually, I don’t need to believe that, I need to decide that I’m speaking for me. I’m writing for me. Because the thing I am writing is meaningful. TO ME.
I feel so lonely because I always worry that others don’t want to hear what I have to say. That I’m imposing or annoying or frustrating or, or, or, or. I’m always so scared of saying the wrong thing that I never give myself the chance to say the right thing!
So I failed. Because I tried too hard to be perfect and to be meaningful. But I’m trying again and this time it might be a little less meaningful, it might be a little less polished, and it might be way more frustrating or angering or wrong.
But I promise that it will mean something to me.