Breakthrough

I told everyone I’d post weekly.

More than a month later, I’m in the same frustrating position.

It’s not that I’m incapable, it’s because I’m still afraid.

I fear failure, judgment, and embarrassment. 

I don’t want to come off as pretentious, arrogant, or preachy.

It’s a “If I don’t try, then I won’t fail” mentality, 

and it never fails to make me feel inadequate.

Here’s the truth:

Reality is altered through action, not inertia.

Dominoes don’t fall without a nudge.

I’ve been given hands to control my course,

but I refuse to put them to good use.

Fear manifests in varieties; it’s the prime inhibitor to purpose.

Imagine what we could do if we could make them disappear. 

But they don’t dissipate with the snap of a finger,

and you don’t wake up one morning with surging courage.

It’s a drawn-out metamorphosis in a suffocating, skintight cocoon.

It requires practice, effort, questioning, small victories, and innumerable failures.

But as long as you show up, you will eventually reach the breaking point.

That’s where I am now. 

I’m teetering on the precipice between my middling past and a meaningful future.

All I need to do is pull the trigger, but there’s one final hurdle to overtake:

Letting go of my weaknesses.

I don’t have an outgoing personality.

I don’t like drawing attention to myself.

Posting to social media is awkward.  

I’d prefer not to be vulnerable to strangers and acquaintances. 

But it’s important that I do this. 

Otherwise, I will never become the person I want to be—

The person I’ve been struggling to liberate from my self-induced restraints.

That person doesn’t fear another’s negativity.

He follows his heart, and trusts himself to say the right thing.

He lives his life according to passion and purpose,

understanding the value of action over the hollow cost of fear. 

But if I persevere in introversion, life will deny me entry. 

I won’t meet new people.

I’ll linger as a hermit on a perpetual plateau, 

watching others grow, learn, and prosper while I simmer in discontent.

I’ve lived that life, and I’m happy to say goodbye.

That doesn’t mean it will be easy.

What can I do, right now, to take charge and break through? 

Let’s start with this—

Act like the other man.

The new Sam.

What would he do when difficulties arise?

Would he submit to his fears or cower to his dreams? 

No.

He would post weekly, even if his work is imperfect.

He would open up, even when it’s uncomfortable.

He would spill his heart, even though it might be spit back out.

Because virtue emerges from contribution. 

Good habits become muscle memory through completion;

and new doors open from persistent knocking. 

So, by embracing the new,

believing in the power I’ve accrued, 

and making the moves the old me wouldn’t,

I am due to become him.

You know what?

Forget that.

I am already.

River/Roland

Recently, I’ve been researching into “flow states”, a phenomenon where people completely lose themselves in their work. Their focus is optimized, time dilates, and whatever they’re doing, whether it’s writing, painting, woodworking, or tweezing random hairs that prop up in the most unfortunate places, nothing else seems to matter. They become grains in an hourglass, or a biting, unrelenting wind, unleashing the full range of their attention and creativity.

The goal is to dive into the flow every time you’re productive. Several things need to happen: You need to know what you’re doing, you can’t be distracted, and you can’t allow your own criticisms or insecurities to snuff out your motivation. Having a “push” from the outside is also great help. Most of the time, this comes in the form of tight deadlines. Some people find it through a ravenous desire to prove themselves, or impress others. Me? I’d prefer to find it by spelunking into the deepest chasms of my imagination, exploring the labyrinth with a flashlight, scanning every corner and crevice for a new character, idea, or theme.

But, to be honest, I’ve had a rough go of it as of late. If you haven’t noticed, my last post was over two months ago. It’s not from a lack of trying; I write for at least three hours a day. But for some odd reason, I’ve noticed that I haven’t been wholly consumed by inspiration like I used to, which is kind of the whole point of the process. So I did what we all should do: I rewound my ‘ole memory bank, and recalled the moments when my flow was at its zenith.

I found it rushing through my darkest places, in a time when I wasn’t in the best headspace. A few years ago, I hated myself, life, and everything else in between. But one night, while sitting at my computer, having just inhaled my third bowl of Cocoa Pebbles, I had an idea of a random character with a curious lisp, and started to write about him. Soon enough, an abundance of personal issues began to flood the screen. Everything from life’s difficult questions, to mundane, embarrassing memories that I continued to cling onto. An interesting thing happened: When I read them back to myself, I recognized that they were, in reality, a tad ridiculous. The gargantuan troubles and harrowing tragedies that plagued me were simply figments of my overactive, unreasonable mind.

Once I arrived at that understanding, writing became my preferred system of self-therapy. I could surrender myself onto the keys and speak without restraint. I started to amuse myself by writing stories. Terrible stories. Characters riddled with clichés, finding themselves in garbage heaps of dumb situations and illogical conflicts, playing tug-o-war with oversaturated, melodramatic dialogue, in settings and backdrops you’ve seen one too many times before.

But oh, was it fun. I wasn’t going to show anyone my writing anyway, so I could dabble and experiment in whatever fictitious worlds I could conjure, dip into their silliness, and enjoy the process.

That’s when I first experienced the flow. It’s like you’re riding a flourishing river of unbound imagination. You’re submerged in sublime waters, drifting in a pristine, crystal-clear torrent, and all the bad weather evaporates. Insecurity is alleviated. Judgment doesn’t exist. You just float on your back and let the river carry you. You’re able to settle in, relax, and listen to the sounds of nature, because all your bitter worries are muted, forgotten on the banks. As long as you keep your head above the water, you can avoid the inevitable showdown with your self-destructive thoughts, and transcribe the pure ones leftover.

Contrasting that experience with my recent history, I realized that over the last couple months, as I dedicated a surplus of hours to a difficult short story, I let the river run dry. Let me tell you, I was committed to this one. I had a flawless image in my head—a narrative that would instigate fits of laughter, in addition to the involuntary bending of tears. But in the pursuit of perfection, nothing got done. I was forcing myself to write at a skill level far beyond my current capacity. I bit off more than I could chew, mixed with a healthy swig of taking myself too seriously; and by doing so, I had constructed dams that inhibited the free-flow of my inspiration. The result was the total investment of my energy into an upstream dog-paddle, when I should have enjoyed a refreshing evening by splashing around in a kiddie pool.

Before I knew it, I found myself strung along by a divergent undertow, which pulled me far away from the main reason why I created this site in the first place: to enjoy my life, conquer my fears, and improve myself. I’m thankful I’m in a better spot to adapt. I was able to recognize it, shift my focus, and the result was this piece—I wrote this whole thing in three days!

That’s the magic of the river: You dive in, let it flow, and savor the current.

This experience has taught me that the best way to improve is to dive right in. I waded in the muck for awhile, but it taught me to utilize the river’s power to my advantage. Showing up to write everyday is difficult as is; I’m not doing myself any favors by handicapping the process. It’s provided a clearer window into my capabilities as well, and I believe I’m ready to head farther out into the water. So, I’m committing to releasing a new piece, weekly. No stress necessary—I’ll jump in without a second thought, just like I used to. At the end of the day, it’s all about having fun and enjoying the ride. Maybe that extra “push” will unlock a greater power within me, who knows? But I’m positive that as long as I let it flow, my imagination will run its due course, and my swimming ability will strengthen with time.

You know what? I feel like taking the plunge right now.

* * *

It’s a hot and breezy afternoon at a miniature, dusty ballpark. A young boy, only a few months removed from his fifth birthday, pirouettes in the outfield. He’s absorbed in his fantasies; absent from reality, once again.

Three weeks before, his father, confident he would become a natural athlete, barged into his bedroom with a distasteful announcement—he had been enrolled to play tee-ball. He groaned. He grumbled. He mumbled. He pleaded; but to no avail. He is here, draped in a white and gold uniform, adorned with purple socks and cap, finding more entertainment playing solo-charades than the game at hand.

His father, standing on the sidelines, is beginning to understand that no matter where his offspring may find himself, he will find a way to paint an epic out of the most basic scenes. In his young mind, he is King, commanding his armies on a grand battlefield, thanking a chivalrous warrior for defending his life. In truth, he has plucked something out of the sod: a rather sizable roly-poly, sunbathing on a fully loaded dandelion.

Swallowed by his reverie, he is oblivious to the teething child at home plate, swinging his bat with diamond-cut precision like a prime Tony Gwynn. Cheers erupt. Footsteps quake the infield. As the young boy fraternizes with a pillbug, he fails to notice that for nearly a half-minute, the ball lay only three feet away from his transfixed position, all while gummy boy circumnavigates the bases at sloth-like speed—even tripping twice between second and third on behalf of his unraveled Spider-Man shoelaces.

It’s only when the baserunner rounds third and hobbles toward the plate that the young boy realizes the crowd is howling his name; an irritating interruption. He withdraws from his hallucination, regards the mob of frenzied grown-ups and teammates directing their fingertips to the white-and-red Easter egg nesting nearby, and after a few beats, spots its glimmer in the rays of the golden summer light.

“Oh yeah,” he thinks as he meanders to its resting place, bends over, and harvests it from the Earth. And with a cute little twirl, followed by a half-effort hurl, he chucks it somewhere toward the general direction of his team.

When the ball arrives at the first baseman’s ankles, Toothless crosses the plate, and raises his fists in exhilarating victory. His teammates snatch him up and place him atop their shoulders, where they chant his name and sing songs of praise as they carry him to the cradle of applause and cheers, roaring from the bleachers.

The young boy, in his mind having just waved off an intrusive fly, resumes his most urgent engagement. He opens his glove and studies the armadillo insect laze on its cushy abode. He tallies the multitudes of spindly legs, and measures the light bend on the curve of his body armor; a gleaming patina with a subtle tint of medieval. In that second, a lightbulb poofs atop the crown of his head; and with a proper royal accent, bestows knighthood upon his new friend—the precise and most excellent name of Sir Roland.

He turns his back toward the crowd, opens his palm, then whispers a heartfelt farewell. After a heavy inhale, and with all his might, he blows the flower into the currents of the dry, westerly wind. He waves as the pillbug rises up and up, so high toward the spotted sky; tracing its ascent as it soars across the expansive plains of barbered grass, over the unfathomable peaks of the outfield’s shelled-yellow fencing, then observes it shrink to a lone speck in the distance, where he foresees it floating like a leisurely parachute to wherever the good universe resolves.

Later on, as they’re driving home, the young boy is gazing out toward the landscape, reeling by his window. His father, one hand on the steering wheel, the other massaging his stubble in contemplation, glances at his son through the rearview, grins, then asks:

“So, what were you doing out there today, bud?”

The boy doesn’t hear him. He’s imagining Sir Roland, mounted upon his glorious wind-surfing steed, landing in the clearing of a deep-dark forest, being welcomed by a horde of adoring cartoon animals, quivering with anticipation. He rises in triumph, drums his chest, and with a booming voice, recounts his adventures among the clouds, and how he owes it all to his king—a friendly giant, having shown him more of the world than any of his kind could ever hope to dream.

A Dim Spark

It only took one step to reach my first big obstacle. 

Last month, after a difficult vacation, my relationship came to a close. In the wake of a breakup, some discover a volcano of pure motivation surging from within them, condensed from years of inaction and discontent, set to erupt and pollute their hurt with thick smoke. They go to the gym, dive into hobbies, or purchase a boarding pass and escape overseas. Unfortunately, my favorite activity isn’t much of a distraction, as it requires that I sit alone for long stretches, cut myself open, and combat my emotions face-to-face.

It’s been difficult. Every morning, I sit down to write, and attempt to break my stampede of feral thoughts into bridled speech. I’ve lassoed my thrashing head, wrestled, grappled, and smothered it, all in an effort to adjourn the tantrum. But even with the ample sum of energy I’ve put out, I can’t seem to secure a firm grip on the reins. I’ve been bucked off, hurled into the mud, and abandoned to suffer ruptured bones under deep-seated bruises. In these times, writing should be a catalyst for ambition, but instead, it has snuffed out my blaze to a tepid cinder, dwindling my drive to the stopping power of a cold, impotent dud.

My issues don’t spring from a lack of volume, but clarity. Since my first post, I’ve written for about one hundred hours and some thirty five-thousand words. But as I re-read them, not a single page or paragraph is accurate to my true feelings, leaving me to question and ferment in my bereavement. In two months, it feels like all I’ve done is translate dyslexic ideas into an unrecognizable language, sifting through smog, praying to God, the universe, or whatever else is mysterious to intervene, and strike down a missile sufficient to ignite my fuse.

For a moment, as I was sparring to solve this impasse, I started to sense a familiar sting—failure, anxiety, and mediocrity—feelings that linger on the threshold to an astute black hole; one where, just a few years before, I had been naively lured into. During that time, I sank far below rock-bottom, to a place where my fire was completely extinguished, diminished to ashes too blighted to smolder. I feared that if I didn’t figure it out, I would begin to backslide, obliged to acquiesce to the pressure of its gravitational pull.  

Back then, I was bound to attend a nightly routine: the submersion of my head into a bottomless cocktail of drugs and depression. After I realized I had a problem, and tried to exit, I then became an eyewitness to the pure scorch of hellfire. For a few weeks, I was gridlocked in bed, disabled from withdrawals. I can only describe it like clambering up cascading quicksand, unable to establish a foothold as my arms seized, all while inhaling a dense nimbus of glass vapor. 

Having escaped on scant fumes, I’m mindful to allow a simple block to anchor me back down to the crater. Even so, in moments like these, when I’ve been most vulnerable, temptation is sly to tap me on the shoulder and whisper salacious lies into my pliable ears—that I take the easy route, buy some pills, and flee.

I was a step away from accepting, but I gouged out my eyes and refused to bow. I continued to show up to write, albeit nauseous from my exposed innards, and sewed myself back together without the help of a numbing agent. Even though I’ve had a hard go at it, I never threw in the towel, and for that, I am thankful, as it provided a flicker of vigor, a miniscule dose of stamina, the bare minimum to continue.

Sometimes, all you need is a microscopic flash of heat to nudge you forward. I knew there must have been something pure among the mess that I could refine into a polished product, so I filtered through thousands of my mangled sentences and straggled words to discover what it was. After much trial and error, and swarming self-loathing, I’ve found a few that have resolved my flame to swallow a morsel of clean air—alighting what I didn’t know I needed: a mirror to introspect, and extended time to convalesce.

Last week, I turned 29. I have a birthday tradition: I engrave an annual list of experiences onto paper, both the highs and the lows, of my previous years. It began as a good habit to ensure progress, but over time, due to obvious stains, had been swept aside to furnish a vacancy for dormancy.

Two years ago, at my lowest point, I was stifled by plenty, and I decided that I had had enough. I planted my boots into the mud, elevated my loaded knees, climbed out, and wrote it all down. And now, this list, once regarded as a window to mourning, has been fashioned into a bulletin board of accomplishments, endorsed by tallies of triumph. As I read them, I can’t help but feel satisfaction, as it’s striking to learn how much an adult human can change in such a short span. 

At that time, I was five figures in debt, choking in a vortex of newfound sobriety blended with age-old anxiety, uncertain of my place or purpose, and oblivious to my willpower to prevail.

Since then, I retired my habitual drug use cold-turkey. I sold or donated 95% of my possessions. I scrounged and salvaged every penny I could find to atone the creditors, and have made full amends. I learned how to create websites, painted, rode horses, and played connect-the-dots with stars. I strangled my dependence on media—video games, TV shows, and social browsing—in order to place myself into a habitat of unhindered creation, rather than a quagmire of blind consumption.

It worked. After parting ways with the inconsequential things in my life, I welcomed the essentials back in: my love for writing, my zeal to explore, and the power to let go. I taught myself patience, how to breathe and rest, and lengthened my attention span exponentially. Most importantly, I liberated myself by emphasizing the crucial: relationships, passion, and merit, by bidding adieu to the excess: stress, inertia, and regret.

Now, after reading all of these back to myself, I think I am beginning to believe my own voice. If I was able to kickstart my dim spark in my pitch-black chasm, then I am whole to stoke it here, in broad daylight, using these words as the prod—I refuse to quit. 

If I’ve learned one thing across my few decades, It’s that I’m here to make the most of the rest, however many still remain. I can’t do it by staying idle, or using accelerants, or waiting for a foreign source to combust my internal engine. What I want, more than anything, is to be a furnace that will not be quenched, so these words must become my fuel that cannot be parched. 

Now, I’m not the most qualified to lecture about compounding interest, but from my own experience, I can profess that the bad things in my life—my blunders, the conflict, and the decline—have compacted, matured, and have finally delivered upon their promised return. I’m a better and stronger person, more grounded, not easily choked out by a simple breeze. It required an immeasurable amount of effort that I can’t even begin to recount, but it’s taught me what’s most important: that I improve, progress, do what I love, and use what I’ve learned to help others propel from their dull embers.

However, this ambition is not straightforward. In order to catch this flame, and sustain my momentum, I need to banish everything else that suffocates the ignition—inhibitions, roadblocks, and distractions—all the things that emerge from my own insecurities and lack of self-control. These hindrances are erected by our own shortcomings, and seem impregnable without proper knowledge of their schematics; but I know them intimately. I’ve learned that the best way to scale them is to diagnose my faults, make them obvious, and by doing so, they will be inclined to wane.

I’ve lived in constant fear of what people think of me, and I fear my potential even more. I overthink every possible outcome to basic tasks, mixing inaction and paralysis. I’ve never worked hard at anything in my life, yet expect my work to be perfect. My feet hold a bias toward shortcuts, and I have permitted mistakes to fester my growing pains. 

This changes now. 

When you establish something meaningful, it cannot be postponed. Writing needs to become my direct priority, as it necessitates that I employ full focus and endurance to entrench a steadfast routine. Upholding my health and mindset is vital; being cognizant of what I allow into my body, in addition to persistent exercise and consistent sleep, as these will ensure I’m in the best position to stand determined, lest I risk blowing this white-hot detonation to muffled exhaustion.

But if I can do this—and I know I can—then my wellspring, my pure source of motivation, will never run dry. It will bolster me when I stall, saturate me when I’m ahead, and thrust me forward when I don’t think I can advance; and I need it, because after everything I’ve seen, I can’t allow an inch to budge my return.  

I’m miserable when I buckle in the presence of invisible hurdles. I’m dissatisfied when I withhold the effort I know I can contribute. I’m uncomfortable abating in my cozy bedroom, when people are out there, conflagrating, and forging the lives they envision.

The life I imagine—one of true virtue, abounding fulfillment, and overflowing joy—is wholly earned, not freely given.

 I can’t simply turn a dial and feed my fire to a satiated inferno; it’s a light and faithful press on the pedal. I will still be the same Sam, subject to the tendencies, insecurities, and anxieties my brain has been hard-wired to perform. But from now on, I’m going to stand firm, acknowledge my weaknesses, and concede to the torch to guide me through them. When the inevitable difficulties flare out, I choose to dive head-first into the flame, rather than anticipate the burn. 

 29 seems a ripe and splendid age to kindle.

The First Step

Hello everyone! Welcome to my blog! It’s been a long ride, but it’s finally here. I could write a lengthy novel about the efforts and personal experiences I went through to publish it, but we all have short attention spans. So, I’d like to expand on the basic idea, the one I believe is most important for you all to know: The first step is always the most awkward, and the most intimidating. 

I want to talk about my experience with the first step, or should I say, the mental preparation required to command your foot to reach out and seize pavement. It is simple in essence, but much more complicated in truth. When you need to go somewhere, your brain sends an electric signal to your body, instructing your limbs to lift up and send you on your way. But when your destination seems so distant, at a place where only rocket ships are capable of traveling to, your mind prompts you to stay put on Earth, and to relinquish your aspirations to journey beyond. It’s been this struggle, and the efforts necessary to get over it, that has defined my adult life up until this moment.

Like most human beings, I’ve always been a big dreamer. If you could stuff the entirety of my life into simple terms, I would say it’s comparable to a fifty-by-fifty square foot house, with a single door, chimney, and window. If you passed by, you could see me through it, sitting at a desk, elbow supporting palm under chin, fixated on a mountain peak penetrating high above the horizon behind you. 

If you were so inclined, you could knock on my door, and I would invite you in, pour some refreshments, sit at my table, then divulge my obsession with the mountain to you—how in ancient times the indigenous people scaled it to see the whole world from the sky. I would explain how it has always been my dream to climb it; that all I want in this life is to see the world from a new perspective, high above the clouds, from a place that so few have seen—a life of opportunity, adventure, and optimism.

Then, I would relay my plan to achieve it: the exact angle of its slope, the precise amount of steps required to get me there, the quantity of water and food necessary to sustain my journey. I would pull out an encyclopedia, show you the whole record of its plant and animal life, its median temperatures in the seasons, then end the conversation with a brief overview of the myths and legends of its history. 

You would listen respectfully, then ask me when I planned on leaving. I would gesture with a wave of my hand to the pile of supplies nestled in the corner—backpacks, coolers, clif-bars, pots, silverware, a tent, and sacks of dehydrated rice and beans. In an instant, I would sweep them all onto my shoulders and back, stampede toward the door, twist the knob, pull it open, then turn to you one last time. 

“Right now,” I would say, “I’m not getting any younger. Lucky you, the house is yours. I don’t need it, because I won’t need to return.”

I would then turn around, raise my knee to stride over the threshold, a stupid grin on my face, a semblance of childhood innocence; and right before I would place my foot down, a deluge of inhibitive worries and anxieties stymie my step in real time, suspending my leg mid-air at a stiff ninety degrees, unable to exit.

You would sit there for a bit, confused, and wonder to yourself if this was actually happening, or if you were in some dream-like, catatonic state. You would approach me, wave your hand a few times in front of my face, then, after a buffered delay, I would snap out of it, chuck my things against the wall, then flee at lightspeed to the safety beneath my twin bed’s comforter.   

“What happened?” You would ask, donning an abject frown. “What was all that about the adventure, the journey, and the opportunity if you’re not even going to step out the front door?”

I would lower the sheet just enough to peek out at you, then respond with a fragile rebuke:

“During this time of year, there are mountain lions. They’re famished and out for blood—human blood. My blood.” 

You’d roll your eyes so far behind your head, I’d hide under more layers in reaction to the mistaken belief of your demonic possession. You’d then sit on the bed, wrap your arm around me, and tell me it’s a terrible excuse; that if I actually went over all the scenarios like I had said, then I would have taken the lions into account.

“You’re right,” I’d say. “But it’s the chance of them being out there at all that stops me from going. I want to make sure I live; I’d rather ensure my survival than risk it.”

You’d rise up, shake your head, move to the front door, then turn back and say, “But are you really living if you’re living your life on standby?”, followed by a quick slam of the door behind you.

“Sorry for pulling the rug out from under you.” I’d say as my tears began to spring, then sink beneath the waves of my bedsheets. And there I would remain; decaying in my cookie-cutter box house, compressed in an airtight container of damning introspection and self-pity, miserable from my cowardice and mediocrity. 

But, from time to time, I’d lift the covers, and see some light break through my window. I would get excited again, collect my things, tell myself that this time, it would be different; only to attempt to open the door again, then pivot back to my safe place, suffering from the same anxieties and pressures I had felt before. I’ve been soldered to this perpetual merry-go-round of will he/won’t he for a decade, and it has been anything but.  

A step forward is supposed to be easy. I’ve been walking my whole life. I know how to do it. I do it every day. But for a long time, I couldn’t figure out what it was that pulled me back. At first, I thought it was the mountain; it’s height, it’s intimidating scope, and my fears of getting lost in its foliage and bad weather. I owned the inspiration needed to climb it, but it felt like my limbs were bound to the cruelties of some malevolent puppetmaster, obligated to consent to the tug and pull of its invisible strings, condemning me to remain idle. My desire was in handcuffs, shackled to a life of discontent and bottled-up want.

Neuroscientists say it’s the human brain, a biological supercomputer fabricated for the sole purpose of survival, doing everything in its power to protect me. It’s a by-product of all the interlacing experiences since my birth, the result of the society I grew up in, persuading me that out there, in the unfamiliar wilderness and dark mysteries underlying the cosmos, and the trillions of possibilities that could cause me harm, it’s not worth it to take the leap, because safety exists here and now; my dreams are too intangible to animate.

But in reality, my dream isn’t to scale Everest; it’s not some crazy ambition that requires thousands of dollars and hordes of people to fly me to the opposite side of the world. I’m not training for months with little oxygen in order to adapt to its sub-zero temperatures and bayonetting winds—my dream is to write, and to become exceptional at it. It’s about waking up every morning, digging my cleats and pick into the icy surface of its incline, all in an effort to discover my true destination—a place where I can express myself, push myself to the peak of my capabilities, and enjoy the sunrise as I ascend to its apex.

I understand that there are no literal lions waiting to consume me at base camp. There are no vortexes with razor blades swirling at five hundred miles per hour a mile above the trail. But still, it’s like I’m convinced that these lies are as authentic as carnivores’ incisors and slicing hurricanes, imminent and absolute, more robust than the grandiose illusions of my fantasies. 

To make a long story short, I knew that I just needed to step out, start at the trailhead, and follow it wherever it leads. However, it takes a while to learn it for yourself. You need to get to a low point, where you realize that you want nothing else but to kick the lid open, because being trapped in a dark box presents no opportunities for growth or exploration. Every human has fears and anxieties that we can’t explain. We all do things in our own way. We’re stubborn and refuse to listen to good advice until we feel the pain ourselves. All we can do is ask for help and share our experiences, otherwise, more of us will succumb to the same afflictions. 

Lucky for me, I found my help: family, friends, authors, and content creators; all loitering in the garden outside my little house, knocking at the door, smiling through the window, beckoning me to come outside and taste the fresh air. They assured me that everything that holds me back was just a figment of fear. Life is better on the outside. Enjoy it, be who you are, and accept the possibilities as they present themselves to you.

Thanks to their help, I’ve been shedding layers like a snake who has outgrown its mold, constricting itself with its own tail, a strait jacket fastened from maturation. It has been claustrophobic and exhausting, but a new person has emerged from his nightmarish cocoon, ready to unveil the strength of his new wings.

Now, I am ready to attempt the climb again, the door is wide open, and the light, finally, has infiltrated in. I built my own website, spent literally hundreds of hours practicing my craft, and now I’m ready to take the step, driven and unembarrassed. 

When we spend life worrying about possibilities, we ignore what we could earn with the opportunities it has presented to us. I’ve endured it for far too long to raise the white flag. I’ve learned, grown, and improved. Now, I’m ready to accept its invitation.

I now understand that my happiness doesn’t emerge from some existential truth or purpose; it’s the result of physics, action and reaction—the lifting up of a knee, the planting of your foot onto the floor, and simply walking, step after step, enjoying the music of the moment.

This blog is the leap toward my fulfilling future. The trail will be long and arduous, filled with roadblocks around every corner, subject to the sovereignty of inclement weather, predators in the bushes, and poisonous plants in the fields. But I know that as long as I do it—a simple first step, the second is surely destined to follow. Before, I would run from the pressure and retreat to the closest shadowy crevice, but that would only dim the light more. Now, I am welcoming the unexpected, happy to greet it as a new acquaintance.

I’m not sure where the path will take me, but I know that my destination rests at its curious end. I’m going to post new pieces as often as I can, and I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoy writing them. I know as long as I stay consistent, and place one foot after another, week after week, that one day, maybe even sooner than expected, you will see me on the mountaintop.