Writing has been my form of expression for as long as I can remember. Typically, my writing serves as an outlet for deep emotions I don’t feel safe expressing out loud. For years, I dreamt of starting a blog or publishing my own books. I imagined doing book tours all over the world, seeing my books in different stores, or watching someone read my book in a coffee shop. But for years, my ideas remained rough drafts scribbled in notebooks or swirling in my mind. Even writing this first post has been a struggle. Perfection wants to take over, while imposter syndrome lingers at the door, waiting for an invitation. Behind me looms the shadow of past failures, dimming the light and clouding my clarity. Writing has become a challenge when it’s not just for my eyes. Even now, every fiber of my being urges me to pause and start over. “It’s not good enough,” “It’s boring,” “No one wants to read this.” These thoughts go...