I don’t think I’ve ever experienced insecurity like I have these last few weeks since taking on this adventure of writing.
I am extremely slow. It’s because of that insecurity. But I tell myself: by the time I share, I will have reached that point where I feel—yeah, this is great work. Even if the energy is split between confidence and doubt—this is great work... but... but...
And I assume there is always that recognition in a writer, isn’t there? This quiet knowing that whispers: This is worthy. This needs to be shared. Or why would we share it at all?
And then—we share.
I browse other work and sometimes feel nothing. That terrifies me. That could be me. All that passion and certainty about my work’s worthiness—poof—only recognized by me... and maybe one other weirdo.
I’m performing my insecurity here, aren’t I? A little theater. But the thing is—I’m not struggling to write. I’m just afraid that maybe I am the only one resonating in my particular frequency
“I am the only one resonating in my particular frequency”
Even as I write this, I realize how cocky that sounds. There’s a little bit of arrogance in insecurity, isn’t there? That thought sits heavy—the presumption that my frequency is so singular, so leading-edge, that only I could resonate here.
Explore more:
Arrogance, Wearing Insecurity’s Clothes (Part 2)
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Practice in Motion
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