There comes a point in growing up where you feel like you are no longer good at the things you thought you were good at.
Heart-wrenching.
It has been one year and seven months since I started questioning myself about my purpose. Not a day goes by without me asking myself that question.
Let me take you back a little. In primary school I hated mathematics with every life inside me. My grades in Maths were humiliating. That meant one thing. I had to be good at something. Atleast. Grammar. I lived for English lessons. The teachers adored me. Definitely it had to count for the only one thing I was entirely comfortable with back in the day.
I enjoyed writing essays. Especially the imaginative ones. As a kid my head space was wild. I marvel at the things I used to write about at that age. Tender age.
Fast forward I knew writing was my thing. At that age I don’t think I had an idea about journalism as a career being embedded with grammar. Should I remind you about how scarce resources were back in the day? Sure I’ll spare you the details. I can’t recall a point when I was asked about my dream career and my answer wasn’t “a journalist”. At that age when everyone wanted to be a doctor, a lawyer, a pilot…. I simply wanted to be a journalist and that was that.
Very many years down I was in uni studying my dream. It felt so nice. I still believed so much in my writing. Though somehow some things had taken a dent in my confidence. So I would write, but I would just write to myself. If anything I would rather get run over by a track than admit to my peers that I loved writing. That writing was my goal.
That is pretty much how I started killing my writing confidence. Haha! And the fact that I’m writing about this is insanely funny.
Why am I still writing up to this point you might ask. Let’s blame it on nostalgia. I recalled back in the day, how much I used to take pride in writing. Then here I am today. Doubting. Was I really good at this thing or these few people who I met along the way were only gassing me up. You know attempting not to kill my enthusiasm. My pride.
So yes, I am basically at it. At that peak of doubting every writing I ever put out.
Do I still aspire to write? Of course I do. Pretty much the reason why I am here. I just do not want to find my niche like how I am constantly told by a few individuals.
I want to be authentic with my writing. I do not want to write simply because I want to make a living out of it. I want to write for a deeper purpose. Something more than just money.
I want to hold such conversations with my subconscious. I know in the long run two or three people will find the purpose in my writing. There are those who wouldn’t. That is entirely okay. Alignment.
I am not after finding a niche. I am not after using the most polished grammar. I just want to write. I am human. I thrive best in authenticity. A beautiful mess. I believe something worthy will be born out of the mess. I do not want to box myself up. Boxing myself up was almost Killing my dream. I want to live my childhood dream.
Four months down the line. I want to look back and appreciate my authenticity.
Shadow to my light. 