Reflection: Journaling on Inadequacy

and a story about vulnerability

Last week I finished filling up an entire journal for the first time in years.

The last time I remember holding a completed journal was back in high school. I wrote almost daily in middle school. Short stories, personal stories, even a (short) memoir reflecting on my expansive 14 years of experience. In that era of life, I never questioned whether I’d be a writer or not. I moved through each day believing, with every fiber of my being, one day those journals would be part of an expansive exhibition on my life as a published author.

Then came ninth grade, a creative writing teacher, and what I learned from Suleika Jaouad is a creative injury.

(If you’re here for yoga, I promise it shows up…)

I’d just moved to Pennsylvania from Oklahoma the summer before. I felt, quite intensely, like I didn’t belong. I was surrounded by kids who’d known each other since kindergarten. They’d played on the same sports teams, went to summer camp, and churches together. Their parents were friends, their older siblings were friends.

So in an act of extreme bravery and not wanting to be alone, I joined a club.

a rarely shared photo of me from high school

I was excited for literary club, where students came together to create a magazine by the end of the year filled with our writings. I wrote consistently throughout that year, shared with my peers when I felt comfortable enough, cheered on others when they shared theirs back. I also wanted to impress the teacher, who I felt didn’t seem to notice me much.

When it was time to put the magazine together, I pulled out my personal essay about transitioning from Oklahoma to this new school. I felt it illustrated the depth of my loneliness and my acts of courage, that it would show this teacher how observant and clever I could be.

We were asked to read them out loud, and so in another act of bravery I shared vulnerably in front of others. However, I stumbled on a lot of words right out the gate. I felt silly and too visible in an instant. Embarrassment took over as I rushed to my seat without finishing. As an adult now, it still gives me anxiety to think about this moment.

“Learn how to enunciate.”

This was the only feedback the teacher gave (and my story didn’t make the final cut).

I can’t clearly remember what followed, besides fighting back tears while waiting for the bus. Even as better teachers showed up in my life, ones that were encouraging and loving, I never quite shook the fear of being seen. I continued to write, even continued to share, but my inner critic became fierce.

Writing went from an act of free flowing creativity, to an act to master.

photo by Sebastian Kuss on Unsplash

I stopped simply believing I’d become a writer, instead I needed to prove I was worthy of it.

It’s a shift in my mindset I recently dove into reflecting back on. Because even after high school, through college and graduate school, I continued to pursue writing. I wrote and wrote and wrote, but daily journaling slowly disappeared. I focused all my efforts on creating things I thought others wanted from me, and I didn’t believe what they wanted was my vulnerability.

After graduate school, another shift happened. I didn’t want to submit my writing to publishers. The idea of being rejected over and over again didn’t feel bearable and the work I was creating felt inadequate of being seen.

And so, one day, it all stopped. I stopped writing regularly in any format. I found new pursuits - learned to watercolor, crochet, run long distances - and (here it is) found myself joining a yoga community.

In my yoga journey, I’ve learn to unlearn a lot of things. And feeling inadequate is one of those.

Yoga has prepared me, in more ways than I can put into words, for witnessing myself non-judgmentally, making me aware of how I see myself and how I show up in the world. That awareness enriches my life, my parenting, builds my ability for compassion and empathy. I still experience feelings of inadequacy, but I’m more aware of how to navigate it.

So here I am, eighteen years after literary club, writing consistently again. Creating this newsletter, meditations, journaling. Poetry and the occasional vulnerable reflection.