How often have I given my power away to a single person? A single person who didn’t even know me. A single person who didn’t even care to get to know me? Perhaps far too often, but obviously not often enough to be aware of it, a lesson brought home recently.

Writing has been something I have enjoyed since I was very young. I love how words can come together and transform my outlook, take me to another place, or introduce me to people who become my friends without leaving my home. What truly captures my heart, though, is how the words can nestle together in harmony and make my heart sing. This is what writing is to me and what I strive to achieve when putting pen to paper.

Sharing what I write has never been easy. There is a vulnerability, a taking off the mask that I tend to hide behind, and so much of what I have written remains unseen by others. In the last few years, however, I have felt the need to share some of what flows from my fingers as they bang away at the keys on my keyboard. There has been a consistent quiet urge to be vulnerable and authentic with the words I write and to put them out in the world instead of keeping them hidden in a file or journal somewhere. And so, to improve my writing skills, I joined a writing group. Having never been a part of one, I wasn’t sure what to expect, though, in retrospect, I believe I expected support of some sort.

Expectations are a challenging thing to have and manage, at least for me. I envision one outcome and, instead, deal with a very different one, often unprepared. This is where I found myself, three short meetings with this group. I found my words judged and found wanting by one member of the group. Judged and wanting with my interpretation of ‘not enough’ layered over. Perhaps my style of writing was not what she liked to read. Fair enough. I’m no fan of Hemingway’s writing style, but I took her criticisms to heart, this single person who had just met me and knew nothing about me.

I stopped writing to share and went back to journaling only for myself, thinking my words were not worthy. I wasn’t worthy. The only ‘public’ writing I continued was the hero series for our community, and then only after receiving feedback from the person whose story had been so deeply criticized by this one individual. But there was a void, and I have struggled to figure out what I am called to do. Am I to continue sharing my writing with all its grammatical flaws and punctuation errors or hold it only for myself?

Clarity arrived this morning as I watched a character on a TV show (a show I had never watched before but wanted some distraction as I exercised). I watched as the story unfolded and the character was chastised for not following her dream, because one person told her she wasn’t good enough. She let one person decide what she would prioritize and determine what path she wouldn’t take. She let one person decide she wasn’t worthy of her dream. In that moment, I realized, so had I.

So I am reclaiming my dream and power, and I choose to write. It is my choice to share my lessons and what moves me, hoping it shines a light for others. It is my choice to be who I am meant to be, punctuation errors and all, and not a version of myself trying to fit into someone else’s expectations. It is my choice to be the light shining brightly for those who look and I choose to write, just as it is your choice to read.

Thank you for being here, dear friend, and choosing to read these words. I wish for you the awareness to recognize when you are giving your power away to another and letting them decide your path for you. ~♥~

Nothing happens unless first a dream.

~Carl Sandberg~