I forgot my writing journal today, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t put my thoughts on paper. I’ll try to make a point to remember it next time.
I sit in a Starbucks eating a rather tasty caprese panini that will likely be my Thursday dinner for the next few weeks, listening to the slow, mellow beat of the background music, and I realize something.
I am no longer afraid.
I know this fear is likely to come back. It is born of uncertainty and the future remains a nebulous thing. Futures are like that.
But tonight the words flow from my pen easily and my heart is at peace. I want to hold on to this feeling. This knowledge that my writing is, first, for me. It is my gift. It is who I am. And it will only ever be lacking if I weaken enough to find myself lacking.
I can give this. Whether anyone ever takes it or not is another matter, and truly not my concern.
I’ve wanted, so badly, to touch someone with my words. Without ever realizing that I am touched.
It’s time to start being good enough for myself. And that doesn’t come from a constant strive for improvements.
It comes from acceptance.