I have a confession. Like most humans, I am afraid to fail. So terrified to fail, it’s taken me 41 years to confess to myself a lifelong dream. But let’s start at the end before we get to the new beginnings.

Last month, I created this blog. It happened on a Sunday afternoon. The kind of afternoon when the sun is so eager to set that it dips below the horizon without lingering, taking all the light with it. And yet, as the tendrils of the day slipped away, I was ready to put my writing into the world. And not the kind of arms-length writing I’ve done as a journalist or a public relations professional. But the kind of writing that is up close and personal. The kind of writing that speaks truths to the darkest corners of the soul.

The change happened, as it often does, out of crushing disappointment. The week prior, I had two back-to-back blows that had knocked me off center—one professional, the other personal.

The first was a canceled work trip, which I was too sick to take. I had been preparing for the trip for months, sure that it would be the perfect opportunity to shine among colleagues. Yet a COVID-19 diagnosis-turned-sinus infection meant my boss went instead, taking my excitement with her. The subsequent disappointment was far more devastating. The results from our latest round of fertility treatments were in, and they were not as good as we had hoped. It was yet another blow in a nearly five-year fight with infertility—a fight we were losing.

So, I sat, feeling angry and sad on that Sunday afternoon in November. And I was frankly depressed. And yet instead of watching Netflix, as I am apt to do these days, I crawled over to my laptop, opened a Word document, and started writing. And it felt good. Even better than good, it felt great. And the more I wrote, the more I wanted to share what I had written. So, on a whim, I published this blog. 

It was a thrilling and terrifying moment—the kind of moment you want to run from and toward simultaneously. Before making the site live, my stomach churned. And the voices of fear started—the kinds of voices that have become all too familiar—the unwelcome guests in the recesses of my mind. There to tell me, “You’re not good enough. And “You’re too old to try something new.” And even more to the point, “You know you’ll fail.” It didn’t take long for the statements to become questions. “What if no one reads your writing?” Worse, “What if they read your writing and think you’re a terrible writer?” 

This is usually part of the story when I give up. When fear wins. History proves this out. I’ve had many false starts over the years. I’ve taken writing classes and read writing books. I’ve journaled, albeit inconsistently. And I’ve written for work and school. And once for a local storytelling performance. But I’ve never permitted myself to consider myself a writer.

Even though being a writer has always been a dream. A dream hiding in plain sight. I remember spending middle school summers in the backyard, my legs dangling over the diving board and my head bent over books, earning free Pizza Hut pizza from the Book-It program for finishing so many. Even more vividly, I remember flipping through the channels on the TV for hours, my head propped up by pillows, hungry for content. It didn’t matter whether it was a soap opera or a sitcom, or a spy movie, I loved the art of a well-told story.

And here is where I landed—on a path of new beginnings with a head full of stories I want to tell. I want to write stories that explore the intricacies of friendship. And stories about how money colors relationships. And stories about infertility and aging and addiction and insecurity, and so much more. But first, I want to write the next blog post before the fear welcomes me back into its familiar embrace. Because it will. Yet this time, when it does, I’ll probably just write about it.