I don’t have to suffer in order to show up for myself or others. Rather, it can be easy. If I allow it.
Right now, I’m struggling giving myself permission to talk about novel writing & my journey. Lately, my thoughts have been circling around “how can I serve others?” “What can I do for others?” Service isn’t an inherently bad thing, but once again, I don’t think it’s about that…
I think it’s because subconsciously, somewhere, my brain knows the best thing I can do for anybody else- is to be myself, unapologetically.
I would believe the same, tell anyone else the same, if it were anyone else. But when it’s yourself- that’s terrifying!
A little wordless voice in the back of my head keeps telling me book writing isn’t serious. Fiction is frivolous. How can art really make a difference? How can you be so selfish when people need? When the world needs?
But I know these are lies. Sometimes, art is the only thing that can get through.
I think I am having to unravel that helping, service, care, is best, can really only be done, gently.
I don’t have to suffer in order to show up for myself or others. Rather, it can be easy. If I allow it.