One of the things I value about myself is my grit. Sure, there are times when I throw in the towel for hours, days, weeks, or even months, but I always come back and tackle whatever obstacle is in front of me with greater resolve. Each challenge creates in me a sense of strength and self-assurance I did not have before. I’d even go so far as to say I am wildly passionate about whatever mountain it is I’m in the process of climbing. Where will this path I’m on take me?!

Here’s the thing, though. I am human. Despite my superhuman drive to always be pushing forward, I do still have those “throw in the towel” moments. Sometimes I give up too easily. Sometimes the obstacles are too daunting to continue. Sometimes, I feel too paralyzed to even start.

Writing a book is the one thing I have not yet been able to find my footing for. The obstacles seem too great, and my thinking too fuzzy. I used to think I wasn’t good enough to write a book, but it has become apparent to me that I make one excuse after another. Ultimately, fear is the culprit. I am afraid my story will hurt someone. I am afraid my story is just that, a story—not helpful or meaningful to others. I am afraid my insight isn’t what professionals need. I am afraid I won’t make sense. I am afraid my style will turn people off from the message I am attempting to convey. I am afraid I have nothing to offer. And yet, when I reflect on the past several years, I notice that my writing has been what I needed. What I have written has been a testament to my own growth and a motivation to remain on the healing path. Somewhere on that path is another wandering soul looking for even one small crumb to help them find their own way. I don’t have to be popular, sell a million copies of a book, or be the next Brene Brown, Mark Manson, or David Goggins. I need to be okay with being myself, healing myself, and, after those things, being an inspiration to others who may be stuck or too afraid to consider healing. It is finding my own voice that is important and frees others to find theirs. I cannot force others to listen and/or act, but I can be a model of hope.

It is a silly example and one I’ve used before, but I want to talk briefly about something I didn’t do one time and how it affected me. I went to a camp one summer during high school and had the opportunity to ride a zipline to the ground with an invitation to think of something big I needed to get over. At the time, I remember thinking about the sexual trauma I had as a younger child and how I wanted desperately to be able to tell someone about it. I looked at the zipline and pictured my success on both the physical challenge ahead of me as well as the symbolized challenge in my head. I was too afraid to take the zipline and ended up descending using the ladder. I was convinced, from that moment forward, that I would never heal from trauma. I was going to be depressed and afraid for the rest of my life.

Writing a book is not the same as believing a zipline challenge could change my traumatized life, but I also don’t want to be on my deathbed and regret not writing. In the grand scheme of things, it won’t make or break me. Yet, it could be a subtle shift—a butterfly effect—in someone else’s world, creating the delicate spark of hope he or she needs to keep going. And it could be the future reminder I need to keep going.

I don’t know where to start, who my audience will be, what the goal is yet, or what direction to take, but I am going to commit to a more intentional process. Wish me luck, and feel free to tell me what you hope to see me write about in a book.