Risk taking is not something I can even pretend to be an authority on. In fact, I marvel at my friends and colleagues who put it all on the line. The absolute stress that I imagine they must go through is overwhelming to me. I am proud of them, and I want to emulate them, I just have such a challenging time letting go.

Part of the problem is that I am happy. I love teaching, I love my time at home, and I love writing. But right now, no one else really sees that last part. Something that is such a huge part of me, part of the puzzle that keeps me sane, and I am scared to share it with the world at large.

I have already written at length about my fears and insecurities in this regard. How I am both narcissist and imposter in the same body. When it comes right down to it, though, I love the stories that I write, and I feel I should share them.

Further, I know that I have a gift for writing. It brings me joy to do it and it is a talent that I can build a life on. But that fear holds me back from taking those steps that would make this a reality. Which is a kind of hell that I put myself in, knowing what I want but stopping myself from obtaining it.

Today, I took a risk. I sent my manuscript out into the publishing world. Again. To face rejection. Again. No, it doesn’t feel any easier than last time. In fact, it feels much worse. But it is a risk that I am willing to keep facing. It will never be easy, but I hope that I will become intimately familiar with the feeling of risk.

And, when I keep taking these risks, I may stumble upon the courage to make the kind of life I want to live a reality.