My spirit, my soul, my higher self, is always talking to me. How often am I listening?
Not as often as I’d like.
It is not anyone’s fault but my own that I keep talking in circles. I know that searching for the right time or the right string of words is ridiculous. I am motivated to move forward in my life, but I have a nagging feeling inside of me. A feeling that keeps me lost in my true intention for writing.
I created a problem for myself when began this blog. I wanted to do it for years. I talked about it for months. When I finally did it, half of me was nervous and scared, and the other half of me was relaxed and confident. Those feelings have not subsided. I go back and forth constantly with feelings of whether I am on the right track or not.
Ultimately, I did it, I created the blog of my dreams. I won’t take it down, I don’t feel any sense of regret, but there is still a desire to drag my feet. I feel like I have to declare, that while I do not feel that creating the blog was a mistake, I do feel that I went about it all wrong.
Wrong, because I forced myself to defined it. Wrong, in the sense that, I thought I had to define it in the first place. Wrong, because I have been trying to fit a mold that I don’t actually fit.
Most of us know that to start a blog you should have a purpose, a category, or a target audience. At least that is what all the articles say when you google ,”how to start a blog.” So I labeled it, and I regretted it ever since.
For me, it started like this.
I have always dreamed of being a writer. An influential human. I have pictured myself standing at podiums giving speeches.
About what? Empowerment!
I have envisioned these things for as long as I can remember.
When I started to write again, after more than a decade of absence, I wrote about everything that was boiling up inside of me. I wrote poems and short rants about my new found passion for life. I took what I saw around me, and my experiences and I wrote. I wanted to share what was in my heart with everyone.
I wanted to share with the world what was happening inside of me, what I identified as, “waking up.” I wanted to spread my experience into the world so that others, could also begin to wake from the sleeping autopilot of life. I wanted to share, and challenge those around me to look at the world differently.
When I started writing, I saw my words forming into a conversation, a conversation with anyone in the world who would listen, and I asked myself.
Why am I doing this?
“I am trying to help change the world.”
How can I reach the most people?
“A blog, for I am a WRITER!”
Who else out there is working to help the world enter into a more conscious reality?
At this thought, I began searching the internet for answers. I began filling myself with ideas that continued my expansion. I focused on the information that strengthened my views of the world, and I sat back and said, “see it is already happening.”
I saw the visionaries, healers, teachers, and people of influence that I sought forging ahead in the battle for increasing world consciousness.
I saw them and felt relieved that the work had already started. I saw that the movement toward change was bigger than I imagined, and I was happy.
I was happy, but some thing else started to brew inside of my mind as I sat back. I began telling myself that I could relax, and that my words were not needed. I assumed my abstraction, and love for poetry was not what the world was looking for. I was also convinced that I couldn’t write in any other fashion besides poetry.
I convinced myself that I was confusing and emotional and that everyone already “doing it,” was doing it better than I ever could.
I tricked myself into believing that just as I did, anyone could crawl on to the internet, turn on a podcast, flip through the documentaries on Netflix, run into the right person, or find some synchronicity in their life that could help them see the world more clearly.
I began holding myself back with self criticism, and I was bringing out confirmation bias in everyone I knew. Even when my friends or family members said something supportive about my writing, I would secretly feel that they were lying to protect me from the truth. The truth, in my mind, was that I was delusional and had a false sense of self-worth.
I got hooked on this idea, that I had to be something better than I was, to be who I saw in my dreams. My ego was very convincing, and I resigned to the belief that I was never going to make a difference in anyone’s life, even my own.
So I went inward. I craved solitude. I believed that I was destined to live a life half fulfilled. I let this belief grow like a festering wound.
Regardless of my sadness, I didn’t stop writing, or trying to work on my personal growth. I just kept it hidden from most of my outside world. I even became accustomed to telling people close to me, that I could not talk about what I was feeling or thinking. I said I had to keep it to myself, because I was too confused to share.
I literally feared my growth. I feared the fact that I felt like a liar. I feared that people would judge me as I judged myself.
As I became an observer of this judgmental behavior, and began working to improve it. I crossed my fingers that things on the outside of me would change too. Unfortunately, all I saw was the same old story, retelling itself in a different way.
Living life in a cycle, is not progress.
Why do I write?
So I can see what I am thinking.