📊 The blank page stares back, silent, waiting. A cold knot grips the chest. Fingers hover above the keyboard, unmoving, while the same thought circles like a vulture: What if they hate it? A flicker of doubt: What if they like it? Then another: What if it doesn’t matter at all?
The perfectionist leans in, whispering its ancient mantra: Why start if you can’t guarantee the end? The cursor blinks, relentless and unbothered.
There’s a memory buried in this moment. A track, the rhythmic pound of feet hitting pavement. ☔️ Early mornings when the air bites the skin, the city still half-asleep. That first half marathon. No one cares if you’re out there. No one claps when you lace up your shoes before dawn. But you show up.
Every training session, every hill sprint, every endless stretch of asphalt shared with the girls. Laughter breaks through heavy breaths. A joke here, a groan there, and a quiet bond forged in shared effort. It’s easy to forget that there’s even a finish line. Then, race day comes. 🏅 The crowd cheers as medals hang from sweaty necks, but the joy fades quickly. It’s the quiet triumphs along the way, the conversations, the determination to turn up when quitting seemed easier, that linger. That memory, vivid now, says: The finish line never mattered as much as the road that led to it.
Yet, here, with the page still blank, the mind wrestles with old habits. Achievements come with validation. A double degree hangs on the wall, a tangible symbol of cleverness. Proof to show the world: I’ve done it. But whose approval did it chase? Not the heart’s. The heart finds no meaning in framed paper. It craves the spark, the challenge, the raw process of growth. So the cursor blinks, inviting another step forward.
Writing mirrors running, doesn’t it? Not every word leads to a masterpiece, just as not every mile leads to a race. There are stories that stay locked in dusty drawers, unfinished yet rich in their own right. Why should they not count? Who decides their worth? Perfectionism protests. It demands closure, applause, external validation. Without a finished product, it argues, effort is meaningless. But there’s another voice, quieter, insistent: That’s a lie.
The journey of writing, like training for that race, carries its own rhythm, its own quiet rewards. Words take shape like footsteps, each one a tiny act of rebellion against fear. The fear of judgment, the fear of inadequacy, the fear of wasting time. But what is time wasted, really?
There’s an answer tucked into another memory. ☕ A warm cup of tea, the gentle hum of conversation, and the simple joy of just being. These moments were never measured by their outcomes. They didn’t need to be.
The page demands action. A single sentence forms. Then another. The fear doesn’t vanish; it lingers, but it loses its grip. This is the way forward, not by force but by flow. One step, then the next. Write for the sake of writing. Let the words be for you first. Let the journey unfold its surprises. The destination will take care of itself.
Turn up. Lace up. Write the next sentence. That’s all there is, and it’s enough.
#writingjourney #embracetheprocess #perfectionism #creativity #amarahartwood