When I first started writing, I was afraid I wouldn’t have anything new to say.¹
I was convinced that, in order to make it as a writer, I would have to share something new, something earth-shattering and utterly profound.
I would waste hours jotting down ideas for posts only to give up and run out of steam.
It turns out, all I needed was a mental breakdown.
Several years back, I was going through one of my monthly existential crises and, instead of keeping it to myself, I decided to write about it.
In a post I called, “Scared Shitless,” I turned my insides out and wrote about how afraid I was starting a business around something that I truly loved.
I went on to share how I was:
- Scared shitless that I didn’t have the discipline it would take to make it happen.
- Scared shitless that I didn’t know enough to do this on my own.
- Scared shitless that those I cared about wouldn’t ever take me seriously.
- Scared shitless that I wouldn’t meet my own impossibly high expectations.
- Scared shitless that I wouldn’t find others who felt the same way and I would ultimately fail alone.
- Scared shitless that I would end up making a horrible leader.
I had no idea this would be one of the most cathartic posts I would ever write.
Once I got all of these thoughts down, I realized something else scared me even more:
Not ever trying in the first place.
This isn’t anything new — plenty of people throughout history have somehow managed to deal with and write about their insecurities.
You might have the same doubts, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t value in sharing your perspective. In fact, I’ve learned being vulnerable can be really valuable while growing an audience around your writing.
Drawn to this vulnerability, readers from all over reached out sharing how much they could relate to my post and how the timing was spot on.
They took comfort in knowing other people felt the same exact way, even if they were halfway around the world.
