About a year ago, I sent my two best friends a message in our Whatsapp group chat. I said that I didn’t want to be a journalist anymore. The messages they responded with were a combination of “eh?” “what are you going to do then?” “Are you closing Black Ballad?” and “Don’t be hasty.” The truth is, I had fallen out of love with writing at one point last year, but it went beyond not enjoying the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do for a living. Every time I was required to write something for Black Ballad or in a freelance capacity, I genuinely became worried. It was as though there was a wall between myself and what I wanted to write and it actually delayed or pushed me to put certain projects and dreams on hold.
It felt like my own worst enemy. One of my life goals is sitting on my laptop because I genuinely refuse to write. I can’t open the document because I fear I will fall short of the very thing, the only thing I have ever felt happy doing as a career. I don’t even know how I became fearful or unhappy when it came to writing at one point last year.