Here I am sitting at my desk at my summer internship on my lunch break making myself begin again. I would be annoyed with myself too with the inconsistency of my writing and the “phases” I have. I go through these intense moments where I have no doubt that I am meant to write and that it brings this sort of life-giving electricity to my dry bones-- then life will happen or I’ll scroll too much on Instagram and begin to feel like I’m a try-hard or someone who isn’t talented in the slightest when it comes to the craft of writing.
I get it-- I’ve been inconsistent with my writing and I want to acknowledge that.
I want to get real enough here on the internet and the three friends that will actually read this, of why I struggle with writing and what has happened the past 6 months of my life.
My sophomore year of college was in the middle of a pandemic. I spent my classes in my bedroom in my cozy IKEA chair and tried to feel connected to the work I was having to produce but always felt separate from it. I decided to take 19 hours and try to graduate early. Fast forward to my second semester I was taking another semester of 19 hours, being in positions of leadership, volunteering, going on dates, gaining a best friend from a complicated and messy attempt at romance, lost a grandparent, applied and interviewed for countless internships, got rejected from countless internships, freaked out at my future, made some serious mistakes, lost hope, cried myself to sleep, felt disconnected from myself, and wondered why God placed me where I was and why he placed me on this earth at all.
That is the fast version. Even typing all of it out feels melodramatic and like I’m still some high teenage girl complaining about feeling sad and that people made me doubt myself. That is the negative nancy part of me through this-- admitting that I have struggled and still am, makes me feel weak and vulnerable. It is a frightening thing to actually admit to others when you need help or that you aren’t at your best or that you've screwed up.
I never understood when adults spoke of how they lost their dreams or let go of them because of “age” or “life” getting in the way. I think I'm beginning to understand that now. I have learned that it is easier to let go of the dreams and those soul-igniting passions than to actually press on-- especially when there is a world full of those pursuing a similar dream. How is yours different? More importantly, how are you different? I think that fact alone keeps most people from even taking the first step into pursuing the dream that has been placed on their heart… myself included.
I’ve let my mistakes, shortcomings, the past, rejections, failures, comparison, and others keep me from just pressing on.
That last sentence sends shivers and sadness through my body.
So, here I am-- picking up the torch, again. I’m fighting to keep on and to find hope in the middle of what feels like drowning. I’m learning that the hope I yearn for when it comes to the future and my life as a whole is found in a person.
It’s funny how growing up can make you feel like such a child when it comes to learning trust.
Pressing on, sweet friends, I’m pressing on.
With love, a heavy and tender heart, a weary soul, a joy that reminds me of the sunshine, a pair of heels I have to wear at my internship, a laugh with a snort, and a cup of iced coffee,