Writing Anyway

To be totally honest here: I am an absolute red flag. Whether it’s the endless questioning of what-ifs or all of my other anxieties, I have the remarkable ability to convince myself something is wrong.

Journaling has been a huge step forward when these spirals begin to pull me in every direction. Journaling has also taught me that my writing doesn’t always need to be perfect. This need for perfection is something I’ve struggled with as an English major.

When I was in college, I failed one paper and I am still haunted by it four years later. So when my friends in the class asked how I did, I pretended it didn’t bother me. In reality, I felt nauseous and cried to my mom. I felt like I wasn’t smart enough. I tend to feel uneasy about my flaws so I act like I am happier than I truly am. Like my failed test scores act as an admission of how horribly I am living, and I wish I could live without my mistakes staying with me.

I am constantly terrified of not saying the right thing. Of not doing the right thing. I criticize all my past blunders before I go to sleep each night.

But I am learning that my writing makes me feel slightly more seen, but also concealed. Praise feels like evidence that I belong. As though my worth comes from saying the right thing.

And the worst mistakes that I’ve made? Questioning if my writing is even good enough. Worrying that being honest lowers my value. Fearing that I will never find whatever I am seeking because that piece of me doesn’t exist.

But here is what I’m exploring: these probing anxieties add a sharpness to my writing. They make me human. Maybe the objective isn’t to hide, but to write alongside each of my anxieties.