Every day there are so many things to write: e-mails, notes, thank-you cards, grocery lists, and on and on and on. In this way I made writing into a chore.
But it isn’t a chore.
Expression can be difficult, but it doesn’t have to feel labored. With a simple change in perspective writing becomes the gift of a helpmate I give myself.
I feel less alone.
There are things I want to say to you, dearest, hypothetical reader. But I’ve been a coward. I am afraid to come off sad, panicked, insecure, confused, human. I want to lift both of us up, which is why I haven’t written and is also how I made writing into a chore.
I did not believe it when I got into the graduate program. Since the acceptance e-mail I have made excuses daily as to why I should continue to believe that I am sub-par. I could not believe that anyone would find professional/intellectual value in me.
I believed even less when I made the trek to visit this new, other state and found home. I have never loved a place, but I love this place.
The truth is that I am scared on a primal level that is so far from making any sense it embarrasses me.
But another truth is that, faced with incontrovertible evidence that in the world is a place that feels like my home where amazingly intelligent and kind people are unashamed to say that they want me and my ideas, I have been unable to continue to my regimen of cowardice and self-flagellation. And in the spaces made, room opens up for possibility.
And I viscerally feel a phrase I used to say so casually.
Things just got interesting.