Almost four years ago I lost something important to me. I lost the pleasure to write. Struggling with depression, not wanting to admit this struggle, not willing to say it out loud that something had to change, I did my best to be self-destructive while hoping someone would save me from myself.
Truth be told, I’m not good at lying to myself enough to pretend that okay is good enough. That average is fine for me. That routine is something I enjoy.
I spent most of my childhood dreaming of the moment I’d grow up and assume the role and put a dent in the universe, and here I was, twenty something, lost, lazy, confused, and somehow feeling sorry for myself day in and day out.
I had lost myself, had lost the drive that got me this wonderful blog and a fantastic audience. Lost my hunger, my ambition, my desire to be the best possible version of myself.
I thought this was it. This was what I was going to be, this was all that I could be. Somehow, less than average. Some sort of… dreamer without the energy to do anything other than dream.
Everything felt too hard: working out, doing the work, aspiring for more, learning new things.
Twenty something years old and I felt as if I was too old to learn new stuff.
I was lazy. That was what I was. I wanted for things to fall on my lap or else pretended that I didn’t want them at all.
I dreamed of a future where I could be all that I had dreamt of being, but wouldn’t move a finger to make those dreams a reality.
If you’re like this, if there’s this stupid voice telling you that you can’t do something, please don’t listen to it.
If there’s a voice telling you that it’s okay to want things and accept you’ll never have them, do silence this voice.
You are not a noun, you are a verb. Continue reading