I wasn’t shit before I started writing.

I had nothing else.

That’s how I felt anyway.

I know now, how harsh my views on myself were, but saying that’s not how I felt would be a lie.

There came a time when I had to acknowledge what was best for me. The many decisions I had to make involved separating what was good and what was bad. It seemed to be the only way for me to truly understand who I wanted to be.

Writing helped a lot.

It’s hard to understand your purpose sometimes, but when you become proactive in trying to change your life, things do tend to become clearer. I’ve always loved connecting with people. The everyday man and woman were who I grew up with. There were no riches or wealth in the form of anything tangible that I could comfort myself with. Instead, I turned to people. It’s why I chose a Social Science degree and it’s why I chose to study Communications. I wanted to know more, not just about the individual or about society, but about myself.

So naturally, choosing that line of study became the right choice for me. It was the first step and kick-started a whole new chain of events that eventually brought me here.

Despite that, when I look back on the last couple of years, my thoughts wander on where I would’ve been if I never chose to put pen to paper.
Contemplating it made me go to places in my mind I never thought I would go back to or ever think about in the first place. Eventually, it all came down to one thing… fear.

The fear of not amounting to anything more than a dried up, dishevelled version of myself.

As a young man, there are certain moments where you become emotionally triggered, especially in regards to fear. You are reminded of times, places and things that make you feel better or worse.

I remember a time when things weren’t the best for my family and me.

I remember coming home from school and seeing my mother sitting on the couch with her head in her hands. As I walked towards her, she raised her head and smiled at me. It was strange because I had dirt on my nice blue uniform and my hat was tipped to the side. She would usually have a frown on her face and proceed to tell me clean and straighten myself up. At the time I had walked myself home because I thought that she would still be at work. I remember thinking how odd it was for mum to be home so early….and that her eyes were so red and swollen.

It wasn’t until some time later, when I was older and could understand, when I was told that was the day that my mum was forced to resign her job.

I remember feeling a sudden sense of sadness…and then frustration, and then anger. My longtime fear for her superiors sparked hatred towards them. I wanted them to know her suffering, I wanted to shout and scream and yell.
In the end, I couldn’t do either. Instead, all I could do was try and be better…so she wouldn’t have to suffer again.

That constant fear which buckles me at every obstacle is because I am more afraid of being disappointing than anything else in this world, not just to myself but to the people I love and care for.

However, in the process of being better, I failed to understand one thing. Which is, that being human means I don’t always understand things the way I should.

I noticed that when the world passed me by… when I felt like I got left behind, I started to become sour and petty. I started to complain and attack the things that I once loved. In reality, the contempt that I had developed was actually misplaced. The truth is that I actually felt this way towards myself. I was afraid of admitting that I was to blame, that I was going to make the people I love suffer.

I had to learn that no matter how much someone has wronged you, no matter how much you think you deserved better, the truth is that you will always eventually blame yourself. Which is what mum did for quite some time. She was sad, not because she lost her job, but because she thought she let down her family…and much like me, she began to blame herself.

The difference is that she chose to live on, she worked and worked hard…and had no regrets for anything, not even for her own fear of what was to come.
She wanted to make the next step count.

I have learned from her example.

Fear drove me to try and make a difference. Whether I’ve succeeded in any way remains to be seen, but at least now I know that I am trying to be more than what I was. No fulfilment was coming from any other aspect of my life. The one thing that remained constant was all of this. Life was in my writing…my eyes saw it and my whole existence worked desperately to try and make it work. All of this was my next step.

I never gave up. I kept on going.
Even when I get no attention, when I felt isolated because of the lack of response, I kept on going.

Writing gave me new meaning…it simultaneously made me remember the past and think more of the future.

I started to value myself again.
It was the right decision. Maybe one day I’ll truly understand how much it all means. Maybe more than a few people will connect with what I have to say. But despite all of that, the fear of regret…of not doing enough at all, is still strong. That’s what matters right now.

I know fear can be paralysing, but when it does stop me in my tracks I remember that day and I remember my mother. That is all I need…because moving on and moving forward is all I have left, I have no other choice.