I wrote this for you.

I imagine myself as a blog person.

I come home from an event, slide out my MacBook, perch on my bed, and tap out my swirling thoughts.
*Publish*

I get into the office after a morning workout, post up at the white high-top, and jot down that weekly product insight.
*Publish*

The words flow. My voice is relatable. The writing is a habit.

Turns out, I’m not that person.

When I get home after the event, I like to cook or crash. And if I happen to log a morning workout, I channel those endorphins into my to-do list.

And so I have 10 years of material in brief notes in my iPhone.

So, why am I stalling?

Since I can remember, I loved to write. I idolized Louisa May Alcott and J.K. Rowling, wrote local newsletter articles for fun, and majored in Hist & Lit, (which required its graduates to write a thesis). What’s the blocker?

Fear

The image of myself as a writer is too perfect to spoil by actually writing. My words don’t flow. My voice is not yet relatable. And the whole thing is far from a habit.

People

I thrive off of connection and commitments, so I fill my time with people. Writing requires solo time, for longer than a notepad entry on a commute.

Vulnerability

Writing makes me feel like a kid. It brings out the whiny, the self-important, or the self-critical. The very thought that pressing *Publish* imbues my words with authority reminds me I don’t have any. So I sit and edit something forever instead.

My best friend believes we all should take ourselves less seriously.

Maybe that’s the key to writing. Today I gave it a try anyways. I’ve kindly bid farewell to that perfect image in my head.

I wrote this for you in my Notes app. And pressed *Publish* anyway.