When I was younger, I wrote stories all the time.
I don’t know exactly why I stopped, but for a long time, I didn’t write much. My fears definitely had something to do with it, because one of those fears was that I didn’t have anything worth writing about. Anything worth telling.
Fast forward to earlier this year, when I remembered a poem I’d heard before. It was about overcoming fear, and had hit me so powerfully that it almost felt like it had been written just for me. So I decided to memorize it, as inspiration. But eventually, the poem I had only planned on memorizing for fun became a speech, and the speech became a message that I shared over and over again. And after presenting this poem, I started writing again.
The poem became a part of my story. And every time I shared my story, I touched someone else’s. I hadn’t expected any of this. Did this happen because the story I told was mine?
There is this expectation that in order to be extraordinary, you have to make yourself different from everybody else. You have to stand out and be noticed. I thought that my story would only be valuable if it was original. But being part of this community has made me ask myself something.
What if being extraordinary comes from having the courage to talk about your own, authentic experiences?
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