You know you've taken self-improvement too far when you need a five-step system to enjoy something you were already enjoying.
Somewhere along the way, the fun got promoted to a performance review.
The moment you turn something you love into an identity you have to defend, you risk making the thing you love another job.
Sometimes the best way to protect your creativity is to stop asking it to prove anything.
You can want your work to reach a million people without needing a single person to read it before you're allowed to enjoy making it.
Ambition and freedom can sit at the same table.
So I'm going to keep writing, changing my mind, experimenting, and probably talking absolute bollocks occasionally.
I don't need to know exactly who I'm becoming before I enjoy what I'm doing today.
I spent years thinking I needed to become a writer before I could write.
More intelligent. More sophisticated. More knowledgeable.
Basically, a version of myself so impressive that nobody could question whether I belonged.
I still want people to read my work.
I still want to build something successful.
I just don't want every outcome to become a verdict on whether I'm intelligent, talented, or worth listening to.
I got annoyed when somebody commented "ChatGPT" on my video.
The video was about forgetting a bucket of human shit under my van. Apparently even my ego has standards for when it wants to feel intellectually discredited.
I spent years thinking I needed to become a writer before I could write.
Turns out, I was already doing the thing. I just hadn't given myself permission to call it anything.
The mind is brilliant at turning uncertainty into suffering.
Sometimes we don't need to solve an imaginary disaster. We need to notice we're making one up.
Also, just because you try to give your shit away doesn't mean anybody wants it.
I left a bucket of shit under my van while travelling around Wiltshire.
Then I went to the gym, plugged in my power station and suddenly remembered I'd abandoned my glorified throne in the wild.
I finished my workout, bought my food and drove back.
The bucket was exactly where I'd left it.
No scandal. No angry villagers. No news crews. Just a bucket enjoying a peaceful afternoon while I'd been mentally ruining my life.
Five hours of sleep, a phone call with my dad, and a piece of barbed wire.
That's what it took to realise I hadn't lost my creativity. I'd just buried it under the expectation that my creativity needed to perform.
I spent 48 hours panicking about launching my Substack.
I researched growth hacks, questioned my writing, and nearly turned something I love into an administrative emergency.
Then I realised what I'd done.
I can enjoy making something before I know whether it will succeed.
I can take the work seriously without making its results a verdict on my worth.
The numbers can teach me things. They don't get to decide whether I'm allowed to enjoy myself.