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note to self: i’ll be there for you, always

written june 6, 2021. Photo by Kristine Cinate on Unsplash I have always looked for myself in other people. I think the idea was that they would somehow hold the pieces of me that I felt were missing. That maybe, if I wrapped my identity up in theirs enough, we would somehow make a whole person. It's not healthy to live like this, but I did it anyway — burning through relationships and searching for something I couldn't quite name. It was never enough, not to be myself, but it was never enough to latch my identity to other people, either. I got close, several times — I thought I had reached the pinnacle of self discovery. I thought I had completed myself. But in the end, relying on other people to help build yourself is never a viable way to do things. It's only recently that I've started to become comfortable with the idea of being enough, as I am, on my own. Several years ago, in this same position, I would have searched for another person to attach my identity onto,

To the Tiny Critic who Lives in my Head Rent-Free

There is a tiny critic who lives in my head, and I think it's time that I kicked them out.

It's been a while since I wrote anything — this blog is proof enough. I've hemmed and hawed over words I've written, keeping them in the drafts because it somehow didn't feel good enough to put out there. I haven't written a novel that I felt good about in literal years, which can be a huge blow to your self confidence, especially when writer has been engrained into your identity since you were six. I've written post upon post about my struggle with writing on this blog — the last post I wrote here is a testament to it, but it stretches back even into 2017 (at the very least). In this post from three years ago, I reference the door to writing being locked, and that I hoped one day it would open again. It's only recently that I've realized I'm the one who locked the door.

That's an embarrassing revelation, let me tell you. To realize that you're the one who's been holding yourself back. But I guess I shouldn't be too surprised; I am a perfectionist after all. I always have been, but for some reason when I was younger, I was better at keeping those disparaging voices and critical thoughts out. I didn't really question whether my writing was good, I just wrote it, and I wrote a lot. My need to write was compulsive and all consuming. I didn't care if anybody read it or liked it or not because I did it for me, because I had to. I used to say, "I write for the same reason I breathe — if I didn't, things would get difficult." What happened to that girl? The girl who didn't care?

Truthfully, I'm still trying to figure that out. There is one moment I can pinpoint, a moment where I received some criticism and my world crashed down around me. However, I'm still trying to work out why that would be the thing to keep me silent for a few years  and truthfully, my struggle with writing and perfectionism predates that. It's something my therapist and I have been working through for a while now, genuinely ever since I met her. But now I'm tired of sitting around waiting to write. I think I actually just have to do it. As my therapist said, what do I have to lose? I'm already miserable.

As I said, there is a tiny critic who lives in my head — rent-free, might I add  and I think it's time that I kicked them out. No more questioning. No more negative self-talk. That's enough. 

To the tiny critic who lives in my head rent-free: this is your eviction notice. You've overstayed your welcome. Get out.


  1. This is inspiring! Way to go Sky!

  2. Glad your kicking the critic out. Hope writing gets easier for you too!


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