A New Beginning, Promises to Myself
I spent the past three years dreaming about where I want to take my life, but never made any changes. It's not easy to strip yourself of negative distractions, and change is often a lonely road.
Since I started this page over a year ago, I’ve made countless excuses as to why I shouldn’t write.
My ideas aren’t original enough.
I don’t have the time to produce something beautiful.
Other talented writers are already resonating with the world, who am I to add my small voice to the mix?
Yet, in my pursuit to write something poignant, unique and transformative, I’ve forgotten that the most universally loved writing often delivers simple and plain truth. There’s no need for flowery language or a complicated message — life already contains those complexities. I realized the only way to start seriously writing is by communicating my genuine life experiences, regardless of how it may come across on the page. I believe that that is true trust in yourself and your ability as a writer.
So, here goes. A book starts with the first page, and I am forcing myself into the practiced discipline of being a writer. My hope is to strive for consistency in this artistic practice, writing at least twice a week and sharing with all of you. My mentors have always stressed that if I want to be a writer; there’s nothing romantic about it. You don’t just write when the inspiration strikes; you do it consistently, even when you don’t feel like it — similar to going to the gym. So, here’s my first push up.
I started off 2023 quite isolated. Though tangibly, I had my family close to me in California, I had left comforts behind in my old home that I had gotten used to for almost a decade. These comforts came in many forms — including people, certain vices, and parts of my routine — that kept me at ease in my lifestyle, and able to ignore the glaring feeling that I wasn’t living up to my full potential.
I have always loved New York City, and still do. Coming from a suburban city, this place represented a haven of free expression, to fully explore my capabilities and explore the boundaries of where my life could go. Yet, a year after my graduation and getting a journalism degree from university, I started to get an uneasy feeling that this place wasn’t right for my future. The things I used to love about the city started to disgust me: the pursuit of pleasure and hedonism rather than spirituality and morality, the excess spending of money, the self-centeredness of everyone righteously walking on their own path, and thus the loss of community. This feeling seemed to grow larger and larger in the pit of my stomach every year, until it ballooned up to my throat. I could no longer breathe with this heaviness, and every word I spoke seemed laced with the memory of a cry. My tears flowed on my face with far more ease than it took the corners of my mouth to form a smile. I wasn’t happy, and those close to me could tell. “I hope you don’t take this personally, but even though you’re smiling, your eyes seem very sad,” my childhood friend’s mother wrote to me in a text. I had gotten coffee with my best mate and we had sent a selfie to her mom to say hello. My head hung in shame seeing that sentence on my phone. I knew she was right. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.
When we are not living in accordance with our values, when we are leading a life that doesn’t amount to the full potential we know it can, I believe it’s as debilitating a condition as any physical disease. You are trapped in your mundane routine while consciously aware that nothing is right about it. You go through the motions—showing up for work, meeting friends for coffee, stepping out to the grocery store—yet aren’t taking any real pleasure in them.
After eight years in New York, I could see that I had built a life around who I wanted to be, not who I actually was. There is no inherent harm in aspiring for something greater, or even different, than what you already have, but I had alienated some of the most tender parts of myself. My life in California was almost always outdoors. Our free time was spent engaging in a physical activity, exploring the terrains of the ocean and mountains we had at our fingertips. Most people in northern California could care less about making themselves up beautifully; they just wanted to get out into nature and enjoy it. I never drank a sip of alcohol, or put anything in my body aside from copious amounts of delicious Mexican food, until I was 18.
I worked in the music industry in college, creating marketing and advertising campaigns for newly signed artists for a large, global music label, and thus had a social and professional life that revolved around evening entertainment. I attended concerts two to three times a week, inevitably in a bar or New York City nightclub where a fair amount of alcohol was involved. My managers were decidedly ‘cool’ in the high-caliber clients they worked with, my coworkers fit and fashionable. I, too, wore the latest leather pants that were in trend, cut my long, black hair in half and bleached it partially blonde, and never went outside unless I looked like I was ready to be photographed. Though in hindsight, these things never mattered to anyone interacting with me, it was something I felt I had to maintain. My parents were proud of me, my friends thought my life was exciting, I felt special among my peers. At the time, I gave no credence to whether this was aligning with who I deeply was.
As time went on, I attracted friends who were on this same path. Working hard but probably living a little bit too fast. For the first time in my life, my friends described me as “fun”— a word that I don’t think my parents, my first love, or anyone truly close to me would ever say I was. I am friendly and outgoing, sure, but what made me me was never that I was “fun”. I am more naturally emotional, reflective, sensitive, spiritual, and even at times, serious. For some reason, I could never seem to find any space in the time I spent with my peers to show them this side. It’s easier to be fun, it’s easier to have fun. Enjoyment became synonymous with a sip of a cocktail or a puff of some marijuana. Why continue to be serious, when we’re in such a glimmering city? Who would want to sit and discuss prose, read books, and get lost in the world of a novel when there is real life happening outside? In actuality, I just hadn’t found any fellow writers yet.
When I finally decided to leave New York in August of 2022, it was to honor the serious little girl inside me again. It was to give the writer in me a chance, to stop being fun and just be myself again. Externally, my life would look a lot more boring. I would spend much more time alone. I wouldn’t have my old friends around to call up to go out whenever I didn’t want to face myself. I just had me, and I promised myself that I would start to sit in the discomfort of who I was without having to relieve my stress with any vices. It would be an uncomfortable journey, but the prize at the end would be getting myself back. I may have one friend, but that friend would love me for my intellectual and my spiritual side, not because I was “fun”. I don’t think I could give myself a greater gift in this world.
I lead a quite little life in California, writing my book, working part-time as a producer at a radio station, and part-time as an MC for local community concerts. I want to get my masters degree in creative writing and join a community of talented writers who believe in the inherent importance of reading and writing. A large part of my time is spent alone, and it’s opened up the space for me to truly think with a clear head. Without proper reflection, I don’t think any writer can write. San Jose, California is free of the city’s noise, the sky clear, allowing the room for my ideas to flow in. I no longer have anything exciting, flashy, or sexy to share on social media, because that’s never who I was before I moved.
Perhaps one of the greatest reasons I left my city is because my heart had become completely entangled with my first love. I fell hard into this world of loving, and it started to completely consume me, so much so that even when it started to become bad for me, I couldn’t climb out of it. Like a snake, over the course of three years, he had wrapped himself around me so tightly that I could no longer separate myself. The compressing feeling in my throat was so debilitating that I had no voice.
But that’s a story for next time.
Thank you for reading. I appreciate the time you’ve taken to read this, and the time you are giving to support independent writers. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it with someone who might like it, too. I hope to see you again.
Thank for opening your heart
Beautifully written, thanks for sharing