Each time we put our feet out of bed, each time we create something, each time we defend our rights, each time we remain silent when we know we should speak up, each time we ask for help, we are all battling our fears. Sometimes, even each breath we take is a battle, but society demands that we hide our fears and pretend our lives are perfect, or we risk being unworthy of love.

One day, I got tired of playing that game, so here is the bare naked truth: I am afraid but I refuse to let my fears defeat me. So, with each post like the one you’re about to read, I recognize those fears, and then I move on.


I am afraid of not wanting my dreams hard enough, afraid that any and all distractions are more than welcome to come and prevent me from going after those dreams.

I am scared that my writing isn’t significant enough for me. If my dreams were that important, wouldn’t I run towards my computer and start typing my book each free second of the day? Instead, I have to fight myself each time, struggling just to get myself into the chair to get working. Aren’t these dreams my choice?

Do I avoid writing because I am afraid? Because I find it easier to stay in the comfort of the known, leaving things to be done later, to lay down in the sun with my cats and not do anything at all?

It is the insidiousness of this response which leads me to be afraid for my dreams and question myself: are they really my dreams? Why am I putting myself through this emotional rollercoaster that writing is? Or do I stop myself because the insecurities and the hard work needed are so terrible that they squeeze the life out every single word that I want to write?

I can’t say I stay awake at night wondering those things, but I do have nightmares every night. I fear that despite the drive in my soul to tell my stories, my soul won’t be strong enough to overrule the basic instinct of stillness.

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