On reconnecting with the eight-year-old writer in me. ...
It's hard to be as vulnerable and brave as my eight-year-old self in a world that constantly judges anyone who dares put themselves out there.
Eight year old me was confident - you couldn't tell her anything (not always a good thing)😅If she spelt a word wrong, she called it as personal flair. She climbed trees and jumped in muddy puddles while wearing princess dresses, coming home with twigs and leaves. She searched for trolls and fairies in the local woods and fields near our house. She read wildly, wrote freely, and dreamed without hesitation.
Thirty-two-year-old-me is more cautious. More hesitant. Sometimes scared.
And I miss her more than words can describe.
I'm learning that being self-assured is harder now. There are moments where the free, childish energy runs through me again - when I feel bold and imaginative and alive - but almost immediately, I hear society's quiet disdain. A voice that calls it foolish. Immature. Cringe.
That voice chides me until I shrink back under the blanket.
So, I'm taking babt steps.
Small acts of courage now, so I can take confident strides later.
I don't know exactly what 'brave enough' looks like yet. But, I know it looks more like muddy puddles and messy drafts than perfection and restraints.
Are you struggling with something similar? Let me know in the comments - maybe we can learn how to be brave again together ❤️🩹
Keep your eyes peeled for more news on my writing here and on my Instagram!
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