I was so disillusioned by the pressure to achieve and our
culture’s skewed definition of success that I forgot to want something for
myself. Beyond forgetting, I ran away from trying. I told myself I didn’t need
a career, that it was useless to plan and downright foolish to dream. So I
stopped dreaming up a future life and sat still for a long while, treading
water and chasing hopelessness around my brain. These past months have been a
stagnant aching, but slowly my inner truth has revealed itself. Don’t be afraid, it whispers, take a risk. My heart stretches wide to
allow for learning. I suddenly see all my fear laid out before me more plainly
than ever before: the fear of failing, the fear of not knowing, the fear of
pushing myself far, far away from every comfort. These are the big conclusions
grown from long stretches of waiting, listening, thinking, crying, and
wondering. These are the answers to my prayers, these final chest cracking
breaths, teaching me the sound and definition of epiphany. These months I’ve learned about work, and fear, and trusting
myself. I’ve searched—chiseled at, tore apart—my insides and now I am crawling
out a new woman. I hear my fears in every sour-stomach, heart-pounding choice
that tells me to run away, and I’ve just decided: I’m done being scared. The
word “strong” motivates me so much it brings tears to my eyes. But the most
sensational thing is the sun that has poured in from every single gaping hole
there used to be. I think it’s called hope.
