The Fire Within: A Raw Confession
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I have a problem. It’s a problem a lot of people have. At least, alot of people who struggle with faith in themselves. I have loads of confidence buried inside of me. But that’s the problem—it’s buried. I buried it long ago as a young person. As a way of protecting myself.
Full disclosure—I was bullied and abused as a kid. I learned early on that the best way to deal with some people was to hide your strength, bury your confidence and mask your joy. Nothing pisses someone who hates you off more than seeing you happy. It’s easier just to pretend you aren’t happy just to keep the peace. So you learn to dim your light. You pretend things don’t matter. You stop celebrating yourself. You make yourself less visible just to keep the peace.
At first, it’s survival.
Then one day, it becomes who you are.
What started as a coping mechanism slowly turned into a prison of my own making.
Does anyone understand this concept? This sad pattern of survival that evolves into self-abuse? What was once a passive-aggressive way to get through the day became a self-imposed prison. And now? I have conditioned myself to look for failure and see nothing but flaws. Life is easier, more predictable when you focus on the negative. Because what happens when the thing you want most requires the very parts of yourself you’ve spent a lifetime hiding?
For me, that’s writing. I need confidence to self-publish. I need confidence to promote my
work, to put my stories into the world, and to tell people they matter. But it’s like a hurricane in my head, and it keeps blowing out my fire. I feel like I’m drowning in a smoke cloud, and I struggle endlessly to restart the flame. I’m a strong person, so I know how to weather the storm. But part of me wonders if life could ever be sunshine and rainbows.
This is the truth: some of us are suffering. We didn’t ask for it. We don’t deserve it. That’s the price many survivors pay. Not because we’re weak, but because we learned to survive in ways that eventually began hurting us.
For as long as I can remember, words have been my refuge. I journal constantly. I process life through language. And indulge in a lot of self-talk. I have used words to self-soothe and work through my emotions my whole life. Words have power. Stories can reach into places that advice never can. They can help us feel less alone. They can help us heal.
My own stories certainly do that for me.
Writing them makes me feel better. Reading them makes me feel understood. And deep down, I believe they can do the same for someone else. Still, the journey often feels impossibly heavy.
Honestly, I sometimes feel like Frodo carrying the Ring to Mordor. I wish I had a Sam.
Someone to remind me I’m capable when the mountain looks too steep. Someone to help carry the weight when it becomes overwhelming. But most days, all I have is the voice inside me. The part of myself that still carries the fire. The part that remembers who I am beneath all the fear. The part that refuses to let go.
This blog isn’t about offering answers. I don’t have any. It’s simply an act of honesty. This is about being vulnerable. A glimpse into the darker spaces that shape my writing, fuel my heartbreak, and influence the themes that repeatedly find their way into my stories.
There is no shortage of content telling people how to become their best selves. But so much of it feels disconnected from reality. It often seems written for people who already believe in themselves. People who aren’t carrying old scars. People who aren’t fighting battles in their own minds before breakfast.
What about the rest of us? What about the broken ones? The ones rebuilding themselves one piece at a time? The ones learning, day after day, how to stop surviving and start living?
This is for them. And for me.
So here’s to the fire within.
Here’s to the souls who survive impossible storms and keep moving forward anyway.
I am still burning. And little by little, I am learning how to stop smothering that flame—find the strength to overcome a lifetime of bad habits and be my true self.
It’s not easy. Some days feel impossible. I still have to climb mountains of negative thinking morning, noon, and night.
But I’m trying. And maybe that’s enough for now. I look forward to the day when I wake up and feel less like a flickering ember and more like a bonfire. Bright enough to stop hiding. Bright enough to stop apologizing for taking up space. Bright enough, finally, to be seen by the world.
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