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.