I’ve spent a lot of time imagining what I’ll do once everything lines up, once the timing’s right, once I feel ready, once the pieces are in place. It’s not even that I believe success should be easy. Just that, somehow, I’ve always expected it to feel easy when it’s time. Like I’ll know. Like I’ll slide right into it without resistance.
But that day never comes. Not really.
There’s a part of me that only wants to move when things are smooth and light and exciting. As soon as effort or uncertainty shows up, I feel myself pulling away. I try for a bit, just enough to say I tried. Then I quit. I reframe. I tell myself that wasn’t the right path anyway.
It’s not that I don’t want things. I do. But the moment they start to cost something - time, pride, focus - they stop feeling like a dream and start feeling like a burden. And that’s when I start rationalising my way out. Sometimes I don’t even realise I’m doing it.
I’ll blame my circumstances, the people around me, the structure of the world. Sometimes the excuses can even sound logical, like I’m just waiting for a better opportunity or trying to do things “the right way.” But underneath all of it is just fear. I don’t want to commit to something unless I know it’ll work and I want proof before I begin. I can't put a part of myself at risk without some kind of guaranteed reward.
So instead I cycle through plans. I talk about them. I make notes. I fantasise about the moment when everything clicks, usually in some dramatic way, like being thrown into a situation where I have to act. Where it’s sink or swim. Where failure would at least be honest. Imagining how well I would do in a world that forces my hand, like a zombie apocalypse, because then I wouldn’t have to choose - then I wouldn’t have to feel like I was the one stopping me this whole time.
There’s a part of me that finds comfort in that idea, the fantasy of being forced to rise to the occasion, because if I die, at least I die trying, and if I win, I prove something to myself. But real life doesn’t work like that. No one’s coming to force my hand.
Most of the time, I understand all this. I’m not blind to it. I know I’m hesitating. I know I’m avoiding discomfort. I can see the pattern clearly.
But seeing the pattern isn’t the same as doing something about it. I’ve spent whole months thinking about change instead of changing. I’ve come up with great systems and abandoned them after a week. I’ve kept one foot out the door so I never have to admit I’m really trying my best and it’s not enough. And when nothing changes, I act surprised.
There’s a voice in me that says: If you’re not good at this immediately, it’s not for you.
Or: If it feels like a grind, you’re doing it wrong.
And I listen to it, even when I know it’s the same voice that’s kept me stuck for years. Sometimes I wonder what I could’ve done with all the energy I’ve spent avoiding doing the thing. And the worst part is that when I do finally try - really try - and it still doesn’t feel good, I panic and slip back. I think: Maybe I was right to wait. Maybe I was never built for this. But I think that’s exactly the moment that matters most.
The part where it feels pointless, where it feels like it’s not working, that’s the part I always walk away from and maybe that’s the part I need to stay with. To sit in the doubt. To keep going through the dull, messy middle. Not because I’m sure it’ll work. But because this is what it actually looks like to make anything real.
I don’t need to get it right.
I don’t need to feel certain.
I just need to stop flinching at the first sign of effort.
And keep showing up, especially when it’s boring, confusing, or unrewarding.
That’s where I’ve always turned back, and that’s why I’m where I’ve always been.
I don't really have a quick solution to the problem I face, how does anybody unstick the habits they've spent 20 years putting in place? So it'll be the long road, forcing myself to commit as often as I can, so that I can live a life no longer guided by all of my fears.