"I’m Not a Writer" (And Other Lies I Told Myself)

I’m not a writer.
I’m not an artist.
I’m not a performer.
I’m not very creative.

That’s what I used to tell myself, over and over.

You see, my mom was an extraordinary artist. Like, the real deal. Her creativity flowed like water. So of course, I could never live up to that. My aunt and her daughters? Dancers, performers, stars on every stage they touched. So again, not for me. And writing? Well, I don’t use fancy words. I never saw myself as a “writer.”

Yet… here I am. Writing.

When I was first asked to be part of a book collaboration (a chance to contribute a chapter) I flat-out said no. Nope. Not my jam. What would I even say? I convinced myself I’d never come up with enough words (even though, ironically, my family says I can talk for days!).

But then I had a conversation that shifted everything. I realized I did have something to share. A story. And if telling it could help even one person feel less alone in their own mess and magic? Then maybe it was worth trying.

So I sat down to write. I thought, “It’s my story. Can’t be that hard.”

Spoiler: it can be that hard, especially when you let your head get in the way.

I procrastinated for days. Then weeks. The deadline loomed. And of course, I waited until the very last minute (anyone else?). It’s like I was trying to prove something to myself: See? You’re not good at writing. Told you so.