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Fear of Failure Kept Me From Writing for Over a Decade

I’m still afraid, but I know now that I have to continue forward

By Taylor Moran WritesPublished 2 years ago 8 min read
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Photo by Emma Dau on Unsplash

It’s the first (slightly) chilly day of Fall in Florida and my husband, Sean, and I are on a walk.

Our easy conversation mirrors the winding and converging brick roads of our neighborhood; we’re languidly moving from one topic to the next and then back to a previous point of discussion as we meander the shady streets.

As is typical, I am doing most of the talking. Sean’s eyes scan the various houses, always cataloging styles and details he hopes we might someday include in our dream home. He’s learned in the decade we’ve been together that I process by thinking aloud and his responses and acknowledgments are measured but not calculated.

“If I fail at marketing, for example, no harm no foul. But if I fail at writing — fuck. I’m truly a failure, right? It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be good at and the stakes seem so high that I’m terrified to even try.”

I’ve been on a roll, trying to figure out why I keep repeating this pattern of gaining a little bit of traction with writing and then avoiding it for months.

“I’m just so afraid…” I trail off.

Calmly, thoughtfully, Sean begins to respond, “I mean, yeah. It’s scary. You have to put yourself out there over and over again — that’s terrifying. I couldn’t do it, but I also have no desire to do it. You do.”

“Yeah…”

He continued, “From my perspective, it seems like how badly you want to share your writing and connect with others through your writing actually outweighs the fear.”

“But the fear is louder than the potential benefits.”

“Then shut it up. Don’t let it be.”

Oof.

He’s right, of course. Fear is not the same as the clinical anxiety I innately harbor. Fear is not outside of my control.

Fear is an emotion just like excitement or hope, and I decide which emotion I feel most strongly — I can adjust the volume.

As a kid, I wrote all the time. I made up short, fictional stories; I read books about things that interested me and wrote pages and pages on the information I’d read.

I’d ask my parents or my babysitters to help me type them up and then I’d illustrate the freshly printed pages with crayons. I “published” several finished books such as Long, Long Ago and The Midnight Wolves, which is to say that I printed numerous copies and sold them to my aunts and uncles as well as my parent’s friends.

As I got older my love for writing only grew. In middle school, I wrote a poem that was published in an anthology of poems by young writers — my mom ordered numerous copies (which was likely what the creators of the anthology assumed would happen when putting it together). Throughout high school, I wrote in my journal, on my Tumblr, and for the school newspaper.

When I got to college, I chose a major other than Creative Writing or English. Enough people had told me how difficult it would be to make a living from writing professionally that I ‘knew better’ than to pursue it as a career. It would be something I’d enjoy in my free time, I reasoned.

So, I registered for only one creative writing course when entering my freshman year spring semester. It was meant to be my fun course, an evening class that would serve as a little break from the pursuit of more practical options. When I squandered all hope of learning anything in that course, I gave up on the idea of additional writing education and, more-so, any remaining aspiration of becoming a ‘real writer’.

I thought that I loved writing. I thought that if given the opportunity, I’d fight for a future with writing. Without realizing it at the time, registering for that course was a chance for me to prove to myself that I could be a writer, professionally, if I wanted it badly enough. So, when I failed to show up and give it my all, I could only conclude I didn’t really want it.

As I’ve moved through various jobs and career paths, I’ve questioned my purpose furiously. I’ve thrown myself into my work du jour to become an expert in whatever I’ve taken on. I’ve given talks to audiences of 100+ people having been positioned as an embodiment of a successful whatever I was that year. I’ve poured over books on marketing, sales strategies, digital media, and other trendy marketplace topics.

I thought that by fully embracing the roles I took on, I’d find the passion and purpose I was looking for.

When I lost my job in 2020 due to Covid, I panicked — as many did. My husband was in his 4th year of medical school and we didn’t just lack savings, we had debt up to our ears.

Still, as I embarked on finding a new job, something inside of me felt very wrong. The role I’d been let go from had driven me to a deep state of burnout and misery. I’d been unhappy for months, but with the uncertainty of the developing pandemic, the months leading up to my lay-off had not been an ideal time to job hunt.

My husband and I had numerous discussions and budgeted and re-budgeted, and ultimately found a way to subsist off of the Covid unemployment benefits and his student loans. We figured out that we could make it work for about a year. So I took advantage of the rare gift of time, and I began to grapple with, and slowly dismantle, the fear that had distracted me from my truest desire for all of these years.

When I began writing again I was shaky, uncertain. I was terrified. I’d sit and write for an hour and then read what I’d written and cry. I didn’t want to put myself out there in such a way. I didn’t want to risk my friends and family reading what I’d written and discussing with their friends how awful and un-talented I am.

I knew I needed to write, and I didn’t want to let myself down by not following through. So, I turned to fictional stories instead. Fiction scared me less because it isn’t the writing form I most want to do. It isn’t the type of writing that makes me feel raw and scared and exposed; which, I’m beginning to realize are, for me at least, feelings that indicate that I’m on the right path.

Even when my mind and body revolted with thoughts of failure, physical anxiety, and ever-present fear, I pushed myself to keep going.

Now, I’m in my fourth week straight of publishing at least two stories a week. I’ve amassed about 20 (paying) email subscribers and a number of new followers on Medium. I’ve received tens of encouraging messages from people close to me and people I haven’t spoken to in quite some time. Every single, objectively small, win nearly brings me to tears. It fills me up with more joy and hope and purpose than I ever thought possible.

Last night, I sat down to write and sunk into a spiral of panic. I began typing away about how I feel like I am constantly failing. My heart began to race and my face grew hot. I had to step away from my laptop and went into our bedroom to talk to Sean.

“What’s the matter?” He asked as soon as he saw me.

“Panic. I don’t know. I hate this.”

“Hate what?”

“Just, like, writing.”

“You definitely do not hate writing,” He retorted.

“Right, no, but I hate this whole process. I keep having to put myself out there and sometimes I get feedback and it feels great but other times it’s just going out into the abyss and I don’t know if I’m any good — I’m probably not.” Everything began tumbling out of me and tears accumulated at the corners of my eyes, “what do I even want to accomplish? Do I really think I could be the next Glennon Doyle? The next Elizabeth Gilbert? I look at these women I admire and I see how witty and charming and full of personality their writing is and all I have to talk about is being depressed and anxious and sober and how difficult my truly charmed life is.”

Deep breath.

“What if this never goes anywhere?” I say as I look up at my sweet, supportive husband through tears.

“Doesn’t doing it make you feel good?”

“Yes.”

“Then stop over-thinking it. Just keep doing it as long as it makes you feel good.”

I settled into bed and began scrolling through Hulu.

“Look what your sister posted on Facebook,” Sean leaned over to show me his phone, knowing I don’t use my Facebook account anymore.

My eyes scanned the screen as I read the following:

My incredibly talented sister, Taylor, has started writing about her decision to become sober and what the journey has looked like over the past 1+ year. I encourage everyone to subscribe and read some of her posts, particularly if you are considering sobriety or know someone who has made the decision to become sober. The insight into Tay’s decision and all the clarity and joy that has come with it may help you in your decision while the insight into the challenges may help you understand what someone you love is struggling with on their own journey. While you do have to subscribe to be able to read, there is a free subscription option!

Fighting past the lump rising in my throat, I looked to my husband and said, “Okay, yeah. It’s worth it.”

anxiety
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About the Creator

Taylor Moran Writes

I write about sobriety & mental health. Subscribe to my weekly newsletter here: https://www.gratefullysober.com/

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