This is my house, small, humble and with a backyard meant for dreaming. There are three bedrooms and one bathroom. There is an upstairs and a downstairs basement. My bedroom was the one upstairs and to the left. There were two windows in my room. One window faced the front of my house, which was on a main street. This is the window I could look through to see the world drive by.

The other window faced the side of my house. I used to dream through this window. And sometimes, I would climb out from my window and stand on the slanting roof on the backside of my house. No one could see me here. Below this part of my roof was the garage, which, for some reason, my family never kept a car in the garage. We had a collection of things in there. Just stuff. We had things like a lawnmower, a few rakes, a shovel or two and whatever collected things that never made it into the home. 

I came across a quote the other day. Maybe I’ve seen this quote someplace before. Or maybe I haven’t. Maybe I just never read it quite the same way or maybe my eyes are open differently. 
The quote said, “Doubt kills more dreams than failure ever will.”
I agree.

To believe that success comes without stress or pain is inaccurate. In fact, there are times when success comes with more pain than loss itself. It would be inaccurate to believe that success comes naturally or that success is easy. No. None of this is true.

I go back to my first published piece of work. I think about the punishing reviews that followed. I think about the people that told me I never had a chance. I go back to the older pieces of my writing, which are unreadable to me now. I am miles away from that time. I am years away and I can say that good or bad; hell, at least I’ve improved. At least I continued. I kept going. I kept writing. I kept learning and I kept trying.
I think about my first chance of speaking at a school. This was on my own steam. This was not connected to an organization or with anyone else. No, this was all me.

I know there are times when you wondered if I was writing just for you. Well, I want you to know that this one is specifically for you. I am writing this to you because I think you understand. In fact, I know you do.
And so do I.
There comes a point where all the money in the world cannot cover the debt of living an unhappy life. The distractions run out and the relationships either turn or fall short. And there you are. You find yourself empty with no possible way to fill the void. Nothing is satisfying and it seems as if nothing can be solved.
There comes a time when the pit becomes bottomless and no matter what you do, no matter what you try, and no matter where you go, there you are. And there’s no escape.

I understand that this is a little bit of a rant. I know where this stems from and quite honestly, I’ll understand if you let this note go unread. But either way, I come here for a reason. I’ve made my commitment to do this every morning, so, ready or not . . . here it comes.

The nerves alone were enough to cause an attack. I was waiting outside and sifting through my nerves to stay calm. What I was about to see and experience was something that was going to change my life. This was my first official assignment as a specialist, or whatever that meant.

In fairness, I have to admit I thought the word, “Specialist” was a little much. I thought the word was reaching for something or trying to make me out as someone other than myself. To qualify my feelings, I had to admit that I gave into the mental obstacles that had plagued me for most of my life. I struggled with the ideas that I was uneducated, that I was not a professional by any means, that I was educationally challenged and that my life’s experience alone was not enough to help as an interactive support. Hence, the anxiety. Hence, the insecurity and hence the fear that I was out of my league.

I am me. I will always be this, the same as you will always be you. I was born. I grew. I lived and I learned. This is the case for us all however, I am me. 
I say this not as a challenge or to compare myself to anyone else. Instead, I say it this way to claim one undeniable and empowering fact. I am me. I say this because all too often, we come at ourselves from a place of judgement. I say this as a means of celebration, which unfortunately most people do not do this for themselves. So, therefore I say it again. I am me.

I suppose the reason I began to write is simple. I began to write about my thoughts because I never thought I could tell anyone about them. How could I tell someone?

Besides, writing is writing and telling is telling, which means I am safest here. There’s no judge or a jury. There is no one around to reveal or expose me or worse, there is none here to humiliate me. Plus, who would care to read something written by me? Who would care? I was too scared to dance and scared to sing. I was too scared to share myself in any way that might unmask my deepest vulnerabilities. After all, I was just a kid, right? I am still a kid at heart, yet I have grown. Or perhaps I should say I have outgrown the old layers that buried me deep beneath my life.