This has been long overdue.

Nearly two years ago, I created a Substack. I made a draft of my first post, messed with the settings and logo a little, and never logged in again. It was always in the back of my mind, but I refused to publish it. Why? Because I was scared.

I’ve been in therapy for roughly seven years, so I know how to validate myself. Phrases like “Putting yourself out there is scary and you weren’t in a place for criticism” and “Starting something new can be daunting and it makes sense that you would feel that way” instantly fill my mind when I think about why I didn’t start my Substack sooner. The earnest, real feeling I have is irritation. Frustration. Maybe even a little bit of anger. Why am I constantly clipping my own wings? Why is it so hard for me to do things that I want to do without external praise or motivation?

I could talk about the answer to those questions for days on end.

I love to write. I have a bin of papers and essays from as soon as I could hold a pencil. It’s a passion of mine and one I have been neglecting for years. This Substack is going to be my writing outlet. Maybe I’ll talk about books I like, politics, or parenting. I’ll probably discuss my religious trauma. Maybe every once in a while, I’ll write a story. I’m not quite sure yet. I guess we’ll both find out as we go.