"Embarrassment" Can F*ck Right Off

I’ve always given too much space to other people’s opinions. Whether or not people think I’m nice, smart, pretty, or good has likely occupied more space in my brain than any other thought I’ve ever had as a living, breathing human being. It’s the thing that keeps me up at night and is the thing that can most often derail my day.

Even though I’m self-aware of this fact, it still is difficult to close out the external noise.

I will, of course, always hold immense space for others in my life. I wouldn’t be who I am without the intention, intercession, and influence of people. In fact, I believe that the core things about someone are made up of the people they surround themselves with. The character and diversity of folk that fill up all of the little corners and cracks of our lives.

For that reason, I still want to remain reflective and open to the feedback and consideration of others. I don’t want to ever move in a way that feels inauthentic to my value of just… people. But I also don’t want to limit myself because of the hypothetical opinions of hypothetical people that (in actuality, hypothetically) don’t actually give a shit.

I’m thinking about all of this in the particular context of my writing and my goals here on Substack and Instagram and elsewhere.

Why do I feel such visceral shame pursuing a passion that fulfills and excites me?

I’ve been writing since I was in third grade. I can’t remember when my love of putting words to paper, creating worlds and experiences beyond my own became a thing I felt I should hide or stifle. There’s always been a part of writing that’s been private, just for me. But where did that cross over from creating a sacred space of personal vulnerability into squirreling away my hopes and dreams into a tiny box that no one in my “real life” can know about?

Right now, I write on an anonymized account on Substack, only using my last name initials as an identifier. This is the same with my Instagram author account where I have 1,200 followers. I’ve tried to convince myself it’s a matter of safety — I have a new baby after all to protect and there’s a lot of people on the internet I want to shelter myself and my family from. But in that case, why don’t I just use a pen name? And why do I so steadfastly avoid sharing this part of myself with my circle of friends and family?

What a useless feeling “being embarrassed” is. But how frustrating it is that I can’t kick it.

I think it’s partly because I feel like this is a childish pursuit. Dreaming of being a full time author of fantasy books feels like an acceptable thing to say when you’re 9 or 10 years old. But at some point that childhood hope has to come back to the harsh truths of reality. It’s why I changed my major in college from Creative Writing to Public Relations.

But then…

How can I have so little faith in myself?

I think I’m writing a story that’s worth reading. I think my book stands up to the books I myself have read and loved. I think I’m good at this. No, I know that I’m good at this. So why the fuck am I still so afraid of opening the flood gates?

Thinking about thinking about thinking about

A core part of being an overthinker is spiraling at the drop of a hat, catastrophizing to the nth degree. And boy, oh boy, am I good at that.

I’ll go on vacation for a weekend and worry about whether or not I left a lamp plugged in. And whether one of our cats might chew through the cord. And whether that loose wire might start a fire. And then whether or house will burn down. And what it’s like to put in an insurance claim for our burned down house. And where we would live for the period of time while we rebuilt our lives. And all of the sentimental and valuable things that we would lose if our house burned down because I left a lamp plugged in.

Anyway…

I think about posting my Substack or my author Instagram on my private, personal Instagram or sharing it somewhere else and I just… can’t even catastrophize.

Because there’s so many unknowns and too many variables to even try. What will my in-laws think? What about that girl from high school I haven’t talked to in years but still feel friendly with? What about my close friends that I do talk to? Will they think I’m silly? Will they give me a proverbial pat on the head and say “that’s so fun! that’s so cute!”

I think that might be what it boils downs to — why I feel so hesitant to share it with my real life people. This isn’t just a “cute” dream or “fun” hobby. This is a real pursuit to me. It’s earnest, it’s honest, it’s desperate. There’s a part of me that I think will always feel a little bit incomplete if I don’t see this dream fulfilled. And maybe I’m less worried about this being perceived as a “childish” dream as I am about that perception having an impact on my motivation to see this through.

I’ve always imagined that once I find a nugget of success — when I win a writing contest or get an agent or sell a book — that I’ll finally share it. Success, in whatever way that’s quantified, feels like it gives validity.

But if I wait for success to open this up, how much longer will I have to keep this secret? How much longer will I feel the strain of inauthenticity?

I don’t know.

In conclusion…

I don’t have any fucking clue. I’m making this up as I go.