2 min read
I am the scripter of stories no one trained me to write.
I draft my becoming in the silence between expectations.
Every morning, I open a blank page inside my own chest.
No syllabus taught me how to author uncertainty.
No manager approved this narrative of self-definition.
Still, I write—line by trembling line.
I am new to myself in every difficult decision.
New in the way I say no without guilt.
New in the way I say yes without permission.
The old versions of me keep asking for relevance.
But evolution has no loyalty program.
It replaces what once kept me safe.
I am enough, even when I am unfinished.
Especially when I am unfinished.
Perfection was a costume stitched by fear.
Competence is grown in public mistakes.
I used to wait for applause to begin.
Now, I begin—and let the silence judge me later.
My doubts are loud but not authoritative.
My past is heavy but not immovable.
The script I inherited was written in survival ink.
The script I write now is drafted in intention.
I am not here to repeat inherited dialogues.
I am here to interrupt them.
Comfort edits out the truth I need.
So I keep the uncomfortable paragraphs.
Growth is an ugly first draft.
Identity is rewritten through risk.
No one crowns the self-authored quietly.
But I am not waiting for coronation.
I am writing in the margins of rejection.
I am revising through awkward attempts.
Each boundary I draw is a sentence completed.
Each failure I survive is a chapter closed.
Each act of courage is a new genre.
I am the scripter when fear goes offline.
I am new when I forgive my timing.
I am enough when I stop negotiating worth.
The story is mine—even when it stutters.
And I am finally fluent in beginning.
