Committed. Sort Of.

This morning I woke up to a post from someone I’m incredibly inspired by (and also high-key hot for), and it rocked me.

Hard.

“…if you don’t sacrifice and put in the time, work and effort into the things and people that you love and truly care about, then the wrong things are going to fall into places you don’t want them to and opportunities you have always dreamed of won’t come to life.”

The caption laid faithfully underneath a photo of he and one of his training partners after a presumably difficult sparring session - guessing from the god-like glisten he had going on.

Focus.

I took a minute and did an inventory of the things I love and how committed I am to the process of loving them. The entire process.

Family. Fighting. Criminal Justice. Romantic Relationships. Friends. Travel. Writing.

I’m committed to my friends and family. I’m committed to seeing the world. I’m so committed to a career in criminal justice that I have spent the last six years of my life stress crying over a textbook and logging endless hours in laboratories and police precincts just to check it off a list. I’m committed to getting punched in the face. A lot. Often to no benefit. And I’m so fucking committed to the men I let into my life that when I was twelve I fell for a skateboarder and despite not knowing how to ride the damn thing at the time, I bought a deck and defaced the underside with a screwdriver just to make it look like I could tear.

It was a really nice deck and our love didn’t prosper past eighth grade.

But then there’s writing. I’ve been committed to writing only so far as I’m comfortable.

I walk away when it gets a little heavy.

Despite having dreams of becoming a phenomenal writer, I’ve spent the past two weeks staring blankly at my computer screen because I’m petrified of committing to the entire process of loving writing.

I am terrified.

I’m not afraid of being punched in the face, missing a flight, one day being shot at, or finding myself broken hearted (again). These things are just events.

Though it’s something I want so badly, I’m afraid of being unconditionally vulnerable.

I’m not afraid to speak up about the people I’ve hurt or who have hurt me, the lessons I’ve learned at the bottom of a bottle, or the idiotic things I’ve done just for the sake of storytelling.

I’m afraid of the days where I can’t get past a mental block. I’m afraid of putting something on paper and it not being well received. I’m afraid of hurting someone by telling a story that might not be mine to tell. I’m afraid that people will think I sound like a know-it-all (even though I preach loudly about always being yourself). I’m afraid to sound preachy.

So because of this I haven’t sparred with my writing. I haven’t laboured over my writing. I haven’t turned myself inside out for my writing.

I haven’t committed to the entire process of loving writing and because of that I’m not where I want to be.

I’m in bed at 1:35pm on a Thursday with a towel turban on and nothing else.

I realized today that in order to get what you want you need to commit fully, despite the ugly parts, no matter what that end goal is. No corner cutting. No convenience.

Today I made a commitment to myself that I would push myself into a fully committed relationship with my writing no matter how icky it gets.

So thank you, hot friend of mine, for your unintentional life lesson. Because of you my readers might find themselves taking in a listicle of all my favourite country songs featuring banjos the next time I can't generate a healthy topic.

I'm committed.