What's the Story You Tell Yourself About What You Can't Do?
I had this old story of mine that blocked me until five years ago.
The Voice in the Dark
I sat in my bed in the ICU of Sharp Memorial Hospital, San Diego. I had just experienced something I didn’t understand.
A voice in the dark spoke to me telepathically. Asked me a question. I was supposed to be unconscious under general anesthetic.
“You get to choose how you go through this experience. What will you choose?”
I was conscious of the voice and answered telepathically: I don’t want to be a victim, so I’ll choose the high road. I’ll use love and gratitude to heal.
When I was taken off the ventilator and reflecting on the experience, I said to myself: I have to write about this.
Then immediately: But I’m not a good writer.
The Fear Behind the Fear
Here’s what that simple thought concealed: decades of avoiding writing. Telling myself I “wasn’t very good at it.” Panic when I landed a PR job at a hospital and had to write a newsletter—so I hired someone else to do it. Even when I ran my own PR firm, I stayed in my safe zone: news releases based on facts. But writing about anything else? Off limits.
What’s the story you tell yourself about what you can’t do?
The one that sounds so reasonable you don’t even question it anymore. The one that’s been running in the background so long it feels like truth instead of fear.
Mine sounded like: “I’m just not a writer.” Yours might sound like: “I’m not good with money.” “I can’t speak in public.” “I’m not creative.” “It’s too late for me to change.”
I remember when I was second grade. My report card said that I wrote in big letters. It looked as if I wasn’t asking for help. I was ashamed of my report cards because I needed help. This fear of writing must have started there and was in my subconscious mind.
Walking Into the Fire
During the pandemic, my friend Jackie mentioned a writer named Al Watt from LA Writers Lab. Then she mentioned him again. Then a third time.
I took the leap.
I worked with Al, took his memoir class, then years of Rewrite classes. I finished a first draft manuscript. Last year I started the final rewrite process—where the real work begins—consulting with Anna Wharton, a fiction and nonfiction writer, Sunday Times bestselling ghostwriter, Orwell Prize nominee, and 3x Substack Featured Publication 2024.
Now I say: I’m a writer.
Not because I’m suddenly brilliant at it. But because I walked directly into the thing that terrified me and discovered it couldn’t actually kill me. I’ve felt humiliated at times, but I didn’t let it stop me. I kept going.
It’s freeing.
The Procrastination That Protects Us
I’ve noticed I have procrastinated during the five-year process of writing my memoir. Fear disguised as “not the right time” or “I need to research more” or “maybe next month.”
But not right now. Right now I want this manuscript finished this year.
Because I’ve learned something: the fear doesn’t disappear before you act. You act, and then the fear loses its grip.
Your Turn
What fear are you carrying that’s actually just a belief?
The thing you’ve been telling yourself you can’t do, aren’t good at, shouldn’t try, are too old for, too young for, not qualified for?
What would happen if you took one small step toward it instead of away from it?
I’m not asking you to be fearless. I’m asking: what if you were afraid and did it anyway?
Share with me: What’s one fear you’ve overcome—or one you’re ready to let go? I’d love to hear your story.
Because every time one of us walks into our fear and comes out alive on the other side, we make it easier for the next person to do the same.
That’s how we heal. Together.
xo
Sherold
As women, we’re socialized not to speak up but to be seen and not heard. Those who speak up today are called ‘Nasty’ women. Shamed and humiliated for speaking the truth. It’s time we all unlearn to not speak up.
Unlearning to Not Speak by Marge Piercy
Blizzards of paper
in slow motion
drift through her.
In nightmares she suddenly remembers
a class she signed up for
but forgot to attend.
Now it is too late.
Now it is time for finals:
losers will be executed.
Phrases of men who lectured her
drift and rustle in piles:
Why don’t you speak up?
Why are you shouting?
You have the wrong line,
wrong answer, wrong face.
They tell her she is womb-man,
babymachine, mirror image, toy,
earth mother and penis-poor,
a dish of synthetic strawberry ice cream
rapidly melting.
She grunts to a halt.
She must learn again to speak
starting with _I_
starting with _We_
starting as the infant does
with her own true hunger
and pleasure
and rage.