The more I get to know you, the more I get to know your other names. Some of them are obvious aliases. Imposter syndrome, for example, sounds every bit as menacing as you do. But it’s your more innocent names that are the most insidious. Names like comfort, convenience, and convention.
I am journaling. I am in the kind of conversation that makes you lean forward and share a piece of your soul. I am so invigorated an idea that it feels like springtime in my mind. I try to sleep, but the thoughts keep blooming. I am awake and alive.
Now it’s time to do the work. I package my grandiose vision into bite-sized next steps. You start to ask me questions.
Wouldn’t it make more sense to do it this way? That’s what everyone else does.
I nod my head in agreement and rework my plan to make it more conventional.
Should you really take on that risk? You’re in your building years. Wait until you’re completely comfortable. Then you can make this a reality.
I push my timeline back several years.
We go back and forth. You make your case. I acquiesce, letting you mold my life into what “should” be.
And your stroke of genius is that you allow me to do all this without once saying that I’m afraid. Prudent? Yes. Wise? Absolutely. Everything but fearful of what would happen if I actually went for it.
I’m calling both of us out. You don’t get to hide behind docile names, and I don’t get to give in. I will respond to your questions with questions. I will resist. I will take the best risk and bet on myself.
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