I entered college for a program that barely sparked my interest, with one goal: use the earnings to fund my true calling as a writer and musician.
It felt like a foolproof strategy at the time. Little did I know, I was feeding myself dangerous self-deceptions.
I prided myself on being forward-thinking. While my peers aimed for steady jobs in the field, I harbored bigger dreams—aspirations beyond the ordinary.
Deep down, I've always carried this conviction: I'm meant for something extraordinary. A sense of destiny for greatness, shared only by those uniquely positioned for it—or so I believed.
That illusion shattered about a year ago, mid-way through a Marianne Williamson audio, and reinforced by countless conversations since.
Fast-forward to graduation: my original plan had faded. I hadn't abandoned writing or music—I practiced daily. But I'd morphed into the ideal graduate, fixated on a 'practical' job. Creative pursuits? Mere hobbies. Who could sustain a living from them, especially with college debt looming?
I landed a stable role and applied for graduate studies.
Then I met an inspiring partner. We shared comfortable silences and heated philosophical debates into the night. Love at first connection.
During a chat about my grad school apps, he paused: "Is that really what you want?"
I froze. "Want?" The word felt foreign after years of structured academia.
"Yeah," he pressed. "I can't picture you in the 9-to-5 grind—rushing through traffic, clocking hours. You've got too much potential, too much life in you."
His words awakened the quiet voice I'd silenced since college—a shy, insecure part craving validation.
"I've always wanted to write a book, inspire others, share my music, change the world," I admitted.
"I believe you," he said, smiling through the phone.
That sparked a profound shift. From a modest WordPress blog to publishing my first book. From labeling passions 'hobbies' to quitting my job for full-time pursuit. From safety-seeking to embracing daily exhilaration over comfort.
Obstacles abounded, but hindsight reveals one true barrier: fear.
Fear spins lies that trap people in soul-draining jobs—'safe' paths that erode life itself.
I craved permission to chase my loves. I'd written two books pre-partner, hidden away, fantasizing about a hacker 'discovering' them.
I sought external validation but rarely shared. Even praise left me empty.
Truth was, I didn't need others' approval, a perfect economy, or new skills. I needed self-permission.
The gap between dream-livers and Plan B drudges isn't talent or circumstance—it's permission to believe, act, and persist.
History's icons prove it: Steve Jobs dropped out. Einstein was deemed slow and expelled. Oprah was deemed unfit for TV and fired.
They shared no secret credential—just unwavering self-belief and grit.
Plan A or B: both demanding climbs. Choose the hill where each step fuels joy amid uncertainty, not tortured drudgery chasing illusions of security.
If death loomed in a week, I'd change nothing. My life now is irreplaceable. I ponder those I've inspired, realizing they might've felt alone without my authentic voice.
Imagine a world where we all unleash our passions—authentic, purposeful lives transforming everything.
I've yet to meet someone powerless. Everyone controls something meaningful, harbors a dream, possesses time, passion, skill akin to giants.
You hold all tools needed. Grant yourself permission—from logic to heart—to pierce fear's gates, torch Plan B, and live boldly as you.
Photo credit: Greg Turner
