I’m afraid of very few things. Being late is one of them. But more seriously I’m scared of failing.
It’s not the act of failing that terrifies me the most. It’s disappointing my biggest critic, my worst enemy. Myself.
I can live with letting others down. I’d take letting everyone else in this world down over letting myself down any day of the week.
I know I will never live up to someone else’s standards of success or beauty. That’s fine. But feeling like I’m not living up to my own standards…hurts. A lot.
I think I’m an ambitious person by nature. I want to accomplish so much in a short period of time. But I also don’t know if I’m occasionally spreading myself too thin. There are days I think I’m not doing a good job of anything.
I feel like I’ve gotten better at not comparing myself to others. But I still compare now and then. Which is so unfair. Especially to myself.
I’m comparing myself to other people. People who are older. People on a different journey than I am. People I shouldn’t be comparing myself to in the first place.
I want to look at someone’s work and be inspired. Not bitter that I can’t do what another individual did. Not frustrated that I’m not half the artist he is. Not upset that I can’t have her life.
Worse, as a writer, I’ve compared my incomplete drafts to finished masterpieces.
But the thing is I don’t see other writers’ first drafts. I don’t see the rough work of all these authors. I’m not aware of the number of hours they worked. Or how many days they put in. So, to me, it might seem as if everything comes easy and quickly to everyone else in this world.
I guess all these things make me worry. For the future. For what’s to come. For my own sake and sanity.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be good enough. But then I think I shouldn’t feel the need to please anyone. To be good enough for someone else. I should focus on pleasing myself. Being good enough for me. And only me.