Worthy of a Dream

I love writing because it’s an opportunity for me to connect to people through my words. As I began writing on this blog and continued to write posts, I enjoyed hearing that people felt moved by my stories and felt touched by my writing. I became eager to write and wanted to work on my craft. My goal became to write on this blog so I could express myself while reaching the hearts of others.

And so, the research began. I started participating in writing webinars and reading up on the art of writing. I compiled lists of my favorite authors and writers so I could study their process. I took out books at the library and signed up for online courses so I could learn as much as I could about the industry. While these tasks were meant to inspire me, it actually did the opposite. I started comparing myself to other writers and how well spoken they were, how quickly they got published, how many followers they attracted, how often they wrote a compelling piece, and the list goes on.

I started doubting myself as a writer. I didn’t think I was a good enough writer to even be called a writer. I felt like I shouldn’t even think of myself as a writer because that was a title for people who were real writers. The doubt spiraled and I decided to cut back on writing. I told myself that I would pick up writing once I felt more comfortable. Days, weeks, months passed. I jotted notes down here and there, but told myself I wasn’t ready to write again.

As I look back on this, I realize that I was the one who decided that I was unworthy of being a writer. I didn’t do something I enjoyed for months because I told myself I wasn’t good enough. And I robbed myself of the joy writing brings me because I compared myself to others instead of focusing on myself. I wanted to be a writer and I took that away from myself, simply by believing that I wasn’t worthy of that title.

I think sometimes we get so caught up in knowing what we want but fear traps us into thinking that it won’t happen for us. I had convinced myself that I was unworthy, when in reality, our worth is defined well beyond the things we are good at. I told myself not to write, that my voice wasn’t loud enough or my tone wasn’t clear enough. But those things don’t matter if I don’t even put the words out there at all. What matters is that I enjoy what I am doing, and people feel connected to the stories that I share.

It’s so easy to believe that we aren’t worthy of all the amazing things this life has to offer. Sometimes it makes more sense to think that we are destined to only do what our to do list tells us to, but I promise you that there is a much bigger world out there when we allow ourselves to unapologetically go after what we want. Life becomes that much more grand and colorful when we know that we are worth all the joy and happiness that comes our way!

So whatever goals you have, whatever journey you want to take, know that you are worthy of making all those dreams come true. If you have a dream you want to revisit, write it down and say it out loud. Share it with those close to you so you may be reminded to continue to pursue it. And above all else, remember that you are worth all those dreams coming true.

Real Life and Raw Words

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As I have learned over the past few years of writing and sharing my stories, I have come to find that my style is to write with emotion, connect it to a bigger picture, and tie it together with a bow of hope and inspiration. I began writing for myself but saw that other people resonated with my words, and that was one of the motivating factors in continuing to write these posts.

So, what happens when life gets messy and words get jumbled? What do I do when I want to share positive thoughts and meaningful insights, but feel at a loss for keeping that bow neatly tied, holding my words together in my heart? As my sister suggested, I should write about this too. The experiences I’ve had recently should also be highlighted, because it’s real life too. And if someone else out there can connect to these words, then it is well worth the fear to write it.  

I pause here, as it is hard to put words to pain sometimes, especially when the pain is numbing. While this may seem contradictory, I think it accurately describes these past few weeks. It starts slow, with extra sleeping and a dose of heavy crying, and then it morphs into panic attacks and fast heartbeats. Loading the laundry machine one day, I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. Starting my car one morning, I felt sick to my stomach. The “resting anxiety” was seeping into my skin and choking the air I breathed. It calculated my every move and kept me filled with panic and fear of the unknown.

I became really depressed, not knowing when or where my anxiety would strike. Some people go on high alert, whereas for myself, I shut down. I cancelled plans with people I enjoy spending time with. I skipped meetings I knew I would like to attend. I was paralyzed with fear that my anxiety was a weight too heavy to bear in public, and my depression fed me lies that I couldn’t be helped. I couldn’t taste food or see sunshine or hear laughter. I felt like a walking zombie with no destination.

I wish I could say that something happened and I could point fingers at what triggered these episodes, but I am learning that it doesn’t make these moments any less real. It’s as if I had a reason for the chaos, then it would make sense that it was happening, therefore being acceptable. Unfortunately, the formula isn’t that simple.

I kept telling my family that I was scared. It felt like my medications were failing me and I didn’t recognize myself. I kept trying to grasp onto a thread of trust that I would get through this, but the line kept getting thinner and the boundaries were blurred. I got frustrated with people who didn’t understand my pain and I was furious with myself because I couldn’t explain it. I took the anger out on myself, beating myself up for losing the words that carried my voice. Here I was, writing about being your own mental health advocate, and I couldn’t even identify the body I was living in.

Tears are falling down my face as I write this, feeling the burden of trying to keep up the act that I’ve got it together. I felt selfish for wanting more out of my life than being dictated by the bullies of anxiety and depression. I thought I was crazy for suddenly plummeting to a dark place that was cold and unfamiliar. It seemed like everything I had worked so hard to overcome has come crashing down to the harsh reality of the life I was living.

I don’t want to believe that this is all we are meant to be. I don’t want to accept that the way things are is the way they will always be. I have faith that life changes and we continue to grow, despite all the challenges and setbacks. Just as the sun sets and rises on a new day, there will be another opportunity to revive our heartbeat and begin again. So I sit at my computer, with just my words and my heart, praying we can see that our soul’s journey isn’t finished here, and the light we shine beams on this precious and fragile world.