Six months ago, I sat on a plane as it flew across the Atlantic Ocean. I finally started something I had intended to do for ages, but it wasn’t until I was forced into a metal tube 30,000 feet off the ground for 8 hours that I resigned myself to it: writing, by hand, in a blank notebook, with no idea what I was doing or where (metaphorically, anyway) I was going.
All I had was miles of empty space, hours of empty time, and hundreds of empty pages.
Today, I sat on a plane with not as far to go. Only 1,100 miles, but there is no more empty time. Nor are there empty pages.
Today, I have ink-stained hands from all the writing I’ve done. Today, I look people in the eye when they ask what I do and I confidently respond, “I am a writer.”
Today, while I’m still not wholly sure of where (metaphorically, anyway) I’m going, I have at least found myself.
I have found purpose and meaning and focus and direction. I have found the power of stepping off into the unknown, where there are no promises but there are endless possibilities.
Today, I am a writer with ink-stained hands — and I hope that I can continue to remember that the life I want to live will always exist one step beyond what’s known. That to live the life I want, I have to get out of my head and into action. Life happens out here, right now.
I’m writing this for my future self, who will undoubtedly stumble and forget what the present me now knows: that the greatest rewards come when you step out not knowing whether or not you’ll hit solid ground when you land.. but stepping out anyway, because when you take action you’re capable of creating whatever it is you want.