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Your #Relationship With Words

Ah, relationships. Oh, how society loves to talk about relationships. We seem to care a lot about who got together with who, who is getting married, and who is still single. Our social media is filled with relationship goals and couple hashtags. But, have we ever stopped to think about our own relationship? Specifically, our relationship with words—the very words we speak into our own lives and the words we utter to everyone else? What is your relationship status with words?

Are You Single?

Are you single because the words you’ve spoken have left your heart broken? Or are you single because you cannot find the right words to say? Are the words you speak onto yourself, and onto others, hurtful and damaging? Or do you choose not to say anything at all, even when something needs to be said?

Let’s start believing in words again. Let’s start encouraging dreams, voicing appreciation, and verbalising affection. Let’s start building a relationship with words. Because words are potent enough to change even the most unchangeable person.

Are You In A Relationship?

If you’re already in a relationship with words, is your relationship healthy, loving, and nurturing? Or… is your relationship abusive and destructive? Are the words you’re speaking positive and uplifting? Or do you allow yourself to be battered by the painful blows at your self-esteem?

Let’s stop with the self-deprecating words that sabotage our confidence and devalue our worth. Let’s stop destroying ourselves and those around us with our very own tongues. Rather, let’s speak life and hope. Because words, once spoken, can and will determine our future.

Are You Committed?

Saying you’re committed means working at keeping the relationship together. It’s about accepting the flaws—that some days, you might make mistakes—but still striving to grow. It’s not about perfection, but loving yourself for who you are.

Let’s never forget how important this relationship is. What we say to ourselves can make us or break us. What we say onto others can motivate ambition or stir insecurities. Though it might sometimes be a challenge to say the right words, let’s endeavour to choose our words wisely. Because words will ultimately define who we are and what we become.

So, what is your relationship status with words? What are your relationship goals? Wherever you are in this journey—single, in a relationship, or committed—start cultivating a healthy relationship with words. Build a relationship that will make you a more fearless, self-loving, and confident individual.

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Posted by on November 15, 2018 in Original Works

 

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Wishing Well [12 Genre Months]

“Drop the coin and make a wish,” he told me. “But remember, it will only last a day.”

The moss-covered stone well, in the clearing of the town woods, was said to be magical. Every year, on the eve of a New Year, children would venture down a muddy path to where the stone well had been built. It was rumoured that the stone well, of which its depth no one could ever surmise, was the work of the early settlers who had sailed from Gaul. Though not in any historical records, many believed that the early settlers were Druids. After all, the strange occurrences in the small township of a thousand were often left unexplained. From the blooming of lavender in winter, to the display of red and green light streaming across one autumn night, one cannot insist that the place I called home was—for the lack of scientific explanations—magical.

“How do you know if it worked?” I asked.

“Make it an obvious wish,” my best friend, who had tossed a coin the year before, replied.

I was seven that New Year’s Eve. And so I made an obvious wish—a prayer, almost—that my parents wouldn’t go through with their divorce. That perhaps, for just one more day, we could be a happy family. And, though arguable that it might just be an educated decision on my parents’ end, they didn’t file the papers until I turned twelve.

Every year after my first coin toss, I returned to the stone well with my best friend. I made wishes, which were so realistically possible, that they never failed to come true. I was a child. I had yet chosen the path of a skeptic. It was only on my twenty-first year, when I returned home for the year end holidays, did I truly put the stone well and its supposed magic to the test.

“Are you sure you want to do this,” my best friend asked.

“Only for a day, right?”

“Correct. But remember how your parents stayed together for five years?” he recalled, almost as if he believed the fairytale to be true.

“Don’t tell me you still believe in this… wishing well.”

“Don’t tell me you have a reason for the frost flowers last summer,” he challenged—yet another bizarre phenomenon where the town lake blossomed ice crystals in the 40 °C heat.

“Yes, strange things happen here. But stranger things have happened elsewhere. Just Google it,” I stated.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “I’m just saying, what you’re wishing for, if not for a day, can ruin you.”

I chuckled. What was the worst that could happen, I thought. If magic was indeed real, then I wouldn’t have to hurt anymore. If magic could save me from the agonizing pain—a pain I’ve failed to rid myself of for the past year—why not give it a try? And… if this magic decided to prolong its stay, it would be a blessing in disguise.

So on the night of December 31st, I met my best friend at the trail-head of the timberland with a coin and a torchlight in hand. We chatted about our school year for the entire twenty-minute stroll until, there it was, the stone well basking beneath the pastel moonlight. There was no one else around—the children had visited in the morning, the high-schoolers in the afternoon, and some of the adults had dropped by before their New Year celebration. At that hour, everyone was in town waiting upon the fireworks.

“You sure you want to do this,” he asked once more. “All you need is time. Wishing it away…”

Time—everybody told me I would heal with time. But how much time, nobody had an answer. They weren’t seeing her in class, watching her laugh with her friends, and witnessing the glimmer in her eyes when she held his hand. Oh, how I wish I could move on. But I was stuck—my soul crushed by a lost love over and over again.

“It’s been a year. I can’t—I’ve tried. Trust me, I have. I just… I can’t get over her,” I admitted.

“But wishing your feelings away isn’t going to make it better. You’re going to feel again after tomorrow. If… only if, the wish lasts a day.”

“I’m just going to wish to stop feeling for her. I’m not wishing all my feelings away.”

“Then make it clear when you toss the coin.”

“Don’t worry. I know what to wish for.”

And so I made my wish. I didn’t hear the coin hit bottom—no one has ever heard the echo of their wish. But from that New Year onward, I believed what some still thought to be a myth. The stone well was indeed magical. It had granted me yet another wish, but in the oddest way I thought possible. Because from that day, I never saw her again.

It wasn’t that she didn’t exist. She was alive. She was still in my class. I would sometimes catch her friends speaking about her. But, I never saw her. In fact, I couldn’t recall her face. She had become a ghost of a memory—a lost love that could never be found. And… it was all thanks to the wishing well in the little town of Bluestone.

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12 Genre Months © 2018 by Jeyna Grace. All rights reserved.

(Click HERE for the list of stories in this writing challenge.)

 
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Posted by on November 8, 2018 in Original Works

 

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8 Destructive Thoughts

On the outside, most people think I’m a self-confident individual. In fact, I once did a Johari Window test with the closest people in my life and the top characteristics they agreed upon were ‘confident’, ‘bold’, and ‘self-assertive’. Perhaps it has something to do with the way I speak and carry myself around the people I’m comfortable with. But on the inside, I’m not as confident as I seem. I’m just like you—I drown in insecurities. I struggle with doubt. I read too much into situations because I hope… I hope I don’t suck. And, there are times where…

1. I don’t believe I will ever be good enough—no matter how hard I try, I’ll be decent at most. It might sound strange, but receiving compliments make me a little uncomfortable because I find them hard to believe.

2. I’m insecure about my appearance—I judge my reflection every single day. There’s always something wrong with this body, and it doesn’t help that others have something to say about it too.

3. I question my personality—am I annoying? Am I insensitive? Do I make others uneasy with my straightforwardness? Am I a bad person for not caring enough? Why can’t I be more outgoing?

4. I wish people noticed me—if only I wasn’t invisible. If only I was an option.

5. I wish people cared more—I can always celebrate the ups publicly, but it seems I have to go through the downs alone. And if I do share my struggles, will anyone listen?

6. I am aimless. Directionless. Clueless—I wish I had more clarity. I wish I knew where I’m going in life. I wish I could see what’s coming.

7. I feel left out—I’m always a second thought.

8. Everyone else seems to be doing better—why am I left behind? There must be something wrong with me—what other reason could there be?

Recently, I began to realise how these crippling thoughts can and will destroy me. So I forced myself into a session of introspection. I looked at every single one of my insecurities and… I found reality:

He made me good. Not ‘good enough’, but good—I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

I have the power to define what I see in the mirror—I am a work in progress and I can achieve whatever I set my mind to. I have weaknesses, but I have strengths too!

My personality makes me, me—there’s always room for improvement, but I shouldn’t try to be someone else. I’m not a bad person, but I can be a better person.

People do notice me—more often than not, it is I who don’t notice them. I don’t make them an option.

People do care—I had and will always have support. All I have to do is open up and share more.

For He knows the plans He has for me—it’s a promise. And He never breaks His promises.

I’m not left out—I choose to be. The choice has always been in my hands.

I’m doing better than I think—there’s nothing wrong with me. I’ve done some pretty awesome things and I shouldn’t forget even the smallest victories. I might not be succeeding in a way others are, but I have my own journey and my own story to tell.

I don’t know what your thoughts are, but I have a feeling we share some of these. And I want you to know that all these destructive thoughts are nothing but myths. None of them are true. We are our worst critics. We judge ourselves more than we should. So don’t buy into these lies. Rather, choose to believe in the truths—we are flawed, we can be better, but there’s nothing wrong with us.

YOU are worthy. YOU are amazing. YOU are unique. YOU are stunning. And YOU are, most certainly, meant for greatness.

 
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Posted by on November 1, 2018 in Writing Journey

 

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Food | Party | Head

Costumes, food, and music—that was what the invitation card read. Nothing more, nothing less, just a fun night with friends. As someone who preferred to cosy up on the sofa with a murder-mystery novel, I contemplated long and hard on my answer. But in the fear of missing out, I said ‘sure’. Did I regret my decision? Yes, but not in the way most introverts did. Rather, what I thought would be an insignificant and boring night changed my life… forever.

“Who are you going as?” I asked my friend—the very same friend that convinced me I would enjoy myself.

“I’ll probably just throw a mask on and be done with it.”

“Seriously?”

“It doesn’t really matter. You don’t have to try so hard,” she said with a chuckle.

“It says, come in your best costume.”

“I’ve been going to this for years—best costume simply means looking your best. Trust me, you don’t want to overdo it—you’ll be the weird one. Just go get yourself a mask.”

If she said so, she must be right. So I took her advice. After all, I was losing interest as the days went by, wondering if I should cancel my attendance. And perhaps, I should have listened to my gut. If only I didn’t feel the need to push myself to socialise and make new friends, I could have escaped this fate.

When the night of the event finally rolled around, I had already planned my exit. I had no intention of staying long and had made up my mind to excuse myself after an hour. But as I entered the three-storey bungalow, belonging to a complete stranger, I had an inkling I wouldn’t be allowed to leave until the host said so.

“This is Jon,” my friend introduced. “The man of the house.”

Jon’s costume was a dinner tuxedo, finished with a black Zorro mask. Alike everyone else, his only costume was a horrible disguise. And at that moment, I heaved a silent sigh of relief—having thrown on a red dress, and a party mask that I bought at a Halloween store. What a nightmare it would’ve been to be an oddity—a thought that would soon mean nothing.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Jon said. “Make yourself at home—it’s going to be a long night.”

I nodded with a thin smile. But as Jon went to greet the next arriving guest, I turned to my friend and said, “I’m leaving at nine.”

“Why?” she asked.

“You know I don’t like this kind of gatherings.”

“You’ll like this one,” she said with a wink. And before I could utter another word, she ushered me toward a group of people she claimed to be her friends.

“Have you guys met Natalie?” my friend introduced, as she gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

For a moment, I was confused. Was she referring to the lanky woman with the broad smile? Or, had she forgotten the name of the person she’d known for almost a decade? “She goes by Nat. Be nice to her, all right?” my friend continued. “Now excuse me, I think I see someone who owes me something.”

Just like that—after tossing me into a bizarre scenario—she vanished. Should I reintroduce myself? I hesitated. Oddly, I chose to pretend that my name was indeed Natalie before feigning interest in the group’s chatter about the newest mobile phone. Oh, how dull it was. But before I could escape the torment, the conversation took a turn.

“So, why did you say ‘yes’, Nat?” the lanky woman named Amber asked.

“Yes? To what?” I replied.

“To tonight.”

“Oh, I thought it would be… fun,” I lied. I never once thought I would enjoy myself, despite my friend’s claims.

“That’s sick,” Amber said. “Honestly, I didn’t know what I was getting into until I arrived.”

“Me too,” one of the two men echoed.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Oh,” Amber replied, eyes widening as though she had just realised I was clueless. “So you don’t know.”

“Know what?” I found myself holding my breath. I didn’t know why, but my stomach knotted—a strange urge to leave surfaced, but my feet rooted themselves to the ground.

“Sam hasn’t told you yet, but things are about to get interesting,” Amber said.

“Sam?”

Who was Sam? I had yet to meet anyone by the name of Sam. Unless, Amber meant…

“Your referral?”

Sam—Victoria’s fake name. What did Victoria drag me into? Why did she invite me to something like this—whatever this is that Amber would call me ‘sick’ for thinking it would be fun? I took an unintentional dry gulp, before scanning the room for Victoria. I needed answers. But more importantly, I needed to leave.

“Don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine,” Amber said. “You’ll understand once they bring out the head.”

“What?” I asked. “What do you-”

“I’ve been told we have a good one this year—all the way from Germany.”

“I-I need to-”

“Look,” Amber prompted, pointing at the doorway behind me. “It even looks fresh.”

I didn’t want to look, but I did. And unfortunately, I cannot say what I saw. For if I told you what occurred that night, I would have to give you a fake name too.

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Food, party, and head were words given by Lars Driessen on Facebook. Fun fact: Halloween isn’t celebrated in my country. But, I thought it would be fun to write something in line with this season. Usually, I try not to craft such tales. Thus why I’ve left the ending open—I didn’t want to imagine anything more, so I’ll leave it to your imagination.

Now, it’s your turn! Write a story of your own with the three words given. Perhaps you can take on a lighter approach.

*To download the banner, left-click then right-click to save.

3 Words, 1 Story © 2018 by Jeyna Grace. All rights reserved.

(Click HERE for a list of stories in this writing challenge.)

 
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Posted by on October 25, 2018 in Original Works

 

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Imagination Is A Superpower [#TRUESTORY]

JG Cover

This story begins in 1999. You might be wondering if I got the year right, and chances are, I might be a year off. But let’s just assume it was indeed 1999.

At that age, I had a classmate who was a great storyteller. Her tales were so unbelievably far-fetched, yet oddly I bought every one of them. And because she often sparked my imagination—like how she attained a publishing deal as a nine-year-old—I started creating stories of my own. It began with the haunted Barbie doll that sat on a black dustbin near the library. God knows how many tall tales I concocted about the doll—a doll which strangely no teacher seemed to care enough to get rid of. There was also that haunted storeroom, in the classroom at the end of the top most hallway, with existing horror stories that I added to. Random question: why is everything haunted as a child?

10 points to Gryffindor if you can spot me!

In 2001, I moved to a different city and enrolled in a new school. This was when I took my storytelling up a notch with a group of friends. It was during that season that Charmed became my obsession—what can I say, magic has always been a fascination of mine. So during recess, my friends and I role-played as the Charmed Ones. I was Piper. I had a Leo. My friend who was Phoebe had a Cole. All these names would sound foreign if you have never seen the original Charmed series. But if you know what I’m talking about, you can safely assume we were big fans for having our own Book of Shadows.

A couple of years later, I started secondary school. Role-playing had moved from play-pretend to internet forums. It was in secondary school that I had access to the Harry Potter books, and thus began the sleepless nights and eager evenings to continue a story I was writing with five other Potterheads. And because role-playing was no longer expressed physically, I didn’t just write stories online, I started concocting tales before bed too. In the privacy of my bedroom, I imagined going on adventures with Harry and the gang. I even vocalised the dialogue. It sounds insane but trust me, writing my own stories make me seem more insane—this was just the tip of the iceberg.

However, as I aged up, I gradually stopped with the crazy imaginations… because honestly, it felt crazy to me too. So instead of feeding my imagination before bed, I turned to writing. I wasn’t very good. And people knew that—they were aware I wasn’t the best at stringing words together. I didn’t win a single writing contest. And on two accounts, someone close to me said I wasn’t going to make it—that I should quit because I wasn’t going to be good enough and that I was talent-less. If you’ve had someone close to you put fire to your dreams, you probably know how it felt. Did I believe them? No. Did their words hurt? Yes, so very much. But I was determined to succeed. And so I chose to use my imagination instead.

Born an imagineer, always an imagineer.

Imagination is a superpower. And with great power comes great responsibility. Just like any other superpower, you can use it for both good and evil. You can choose to imagine the worst, where you feed your doubts and crush your dreams. Or… you can choose to imagine an epic adventure where you ultimately become the hero of your story. When such a power is in your hands, the choice on what to do with it is entirely yours. And, I chose to keep my dream alive.

These days, I don’t use my imagination in the same way as I did growing up. As an adult, I channel my flights of fantasy into novels and the positive what if’s into reality. I imagine what could be with a dash of hope in the impossible. Of course, I am not completely free from the monsters of my imagination. But just like in any story, no matter how many times a villain rears its ugly head, it never wins. So if you’re an imagineer like me, start using your imagination in a way that will propel you on your own journey. And if you think you don’t have this gift of imagination, take a look at your childhood—screen through those years where you were free from reality. I honestly believe that the spark is still there, and all it needs is for you to reignite it… again.

 
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Posted by on October 18, 2018 in Writing Journey

 

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Voices From The Attic [12 Genre Months]

Whispers, they often called it—unintelligible whispers between people. But unlike the visitors, I didn’t hear an utterance of a word coming from the dead space. In fact, I couldn’t hear at all.

I was raised in an old Victorian house. Every year, my father would order tins of white paint to keep the pillars, balustrades, and walls in pristine appearance. He would often check the floorboards—quick to fix even the softest creak. And every single time I asked him why he was in a rush to mend the walls and polish the doorknobs, he would declare his love for the place we called home.

My father claimed that our home held more history than the local museum. He would rattle about the heritage to anyone who would listen. But strangely enough, my father never once shared a story about its past—who built it, what happened to the early settlers, and why was it worthy of his love? Those common questions were left unanswered—the moment someone brought them up, my father would default to babbling about the weather. Strange, yes. But though his response always made me curious, I chose to remain ignorant.

For the most part, nothing bizarre occurred within the ever-white walls. The house wasn’t haunted—or at least, it never felt that way. Nothing moved or went missing, and there weren’t any cold spots as how TV ghost hunters would determine the presence of otherworldly beings. However, when I was finally old enough to host sleepovers, I began to wonder if my father had a reason for withholding his stories—if they were more sinister than I expected.

They said they heard voices, I told my father. Voices coming from the attic.

“Voices?” he asked. “What time did you girls go to bed?”

Ten. It wasn’t that late.

“You know what happens when you’re tired, right?”

I shook my head, clueless as to what my father was implying.

“You imagine things,” he merely stated.

My friends could very well be imagining the voices they heard. After all, children had a knack for exaggeration. But because of the whispers—claimed to have come from right above my bedroom ceiling—none of my friends would sleep in my house again. From that day onward, I had to go to theirs. And, for the rest of the summer, everyone thought my house was haunted.

Was I ever curious about the voices? Yes. But just like my friends, it was a fleeting curiosity. I was quick to forget the conversation I had with my father. And since no one else mentioned about hearing them, I forgot about it altogether. It was only after fifteen years—when my husband and I visited my parents—did that particular memory resurface.

“Are there people in the attic?” my husband asked.

No. Why?

“I… never mind,” he said.

What is it?

“I thought I heard something, that’s all.” When he caught apprehension sweeping across my face, he added, “I must’ve been imagining it—it was a long drive.”

Let me ask my dad.

“He’ll think I’m crazy.” My husband chuckled. “It’s probably just the fatigue. Let’s call it a night.”

I agreed—perhaps it was indeed the exhaustion. But as someone who couldn’t hear a single sound since birth, I found myself awoken in the middle of the night by an intrusion I least expected.

“I want them to leave,” a female voice whispered—words seemingly carried by the wind.

The hair on my nape stood as I pushed myself seated on the bed. While I contemplated waking my husband, I heard another voice—belonging to a man—reply, “They won’t be staying long.”

The voices were coming from above my bedroom—the same bedroom I slept in for eighteen years of my life. But as I gazed up at the ceiling, I saw nothing but well-patched plaster. Was I imagining too? Was it a dream?

“I’m leaving tomorrow. I cannot live here anymore,” the female voice insisted.

“They won’t harm us,” the other replied.

“Then why are we hiding?”

“I’ll… I’ll call him tomorrow.”

“Tell him we’re selling—I’m not raising our child in a haunted house.”

Silence followed after the woman’s declaration. There were no more whispers—no more voices from the attic. I strained my ears for a decibel of a sound, but I heard nothing. Assuming it was all in my head, I returned to sleep. But when the rooster crowed, I found it hard to ignore what I had heard. So I pulled my father aside after breakfast, hopeful for a reasonable explanation.

I heard voices last night, coming from the attic.

“Voices? What kind of voices?” my father asked.

Human voices. They were talking about us.

“What time did you go to bed?”

Dad, I’m not a child.

“Then you should know better than to ask.”

What do you mean?

“I mean, go to bed early. You shouldn’t be hearing anything.”

I don’t understand. Why-

“If they can’t hear you, you can’t hear them.”

Dad, you’re not-

“Forget it,” he sternly replied.

Dad, what’s-

“The weather looks good today, doesn’t it? We should have a picnic—I’ll inform your mother.”

From that day onward, I didn’t hear the voices again. There were no more ghostly whispers. The attic was silent. And not because I went to bed early. It wasn’t even because I was deaf. There were no more voices because there was a fire—a fire I would soon have to forget for this story to repeat itself, over and over again.

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12 Genre Months © 2018 by Jeyna Grace. All rights reserved.

(Click HERE for the list of stories in this writing challenge.)

 
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Posted by on October 11, 2018 in Original Works

 

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Why You Should Be A Failure

Failing is scary. And we’re all afraid of failure. We’re afraid of failing in our exams, in our relationships, in our businesses, and in our life. We are so afraid of failure that we find excuses not to encounter it, if we can. And for some, that would mean allowing this fear to hold them back from pursuing their dreams.

Are you afraid of failure? Is the fear of failure robbing you of your future? Today, I want you to be a failure. I want you to embrace it, welcome it, and face it. I want you to own up to your failures. Because failing is probably one of the best things you can ever do in your life.

Bold statement—I know. Here’s why.

#1 Being A Failure Elevates Your Skill

Wait, doesn’t failure reinforce your inabilities? Doesn’t it broadcast your lack of skill to the world? How can failing make you better?

I believe that every failure is an opportunity to learn from your mistakes. So yes, it showcases your weaknesses. But the more you fail, the more chances you have to eliminate the causes of your past failures. Each fail brings to light your shortcomings, allowing you to better yourself in those areas. If you’re afraid to fail, you will never be able to answer the how, when, why, and where.

So, should you be afraid of failure? You can be—facing your weaknesses is no easy task—but start seeing failure as an opportunity to grow in your craft. Don’t fear it, embrace it!

#2 Being A Failure Strengthens Your Passion

If you fail one too many times, you are at risk of giving up. You’ll start to question your passion and the reason behind your relentless pursuit. Failure will tempt you to throw in the towel… or will it?

Failure does indeed challenge the purpose of your passion. It will inevitably question your dreams. But failure also gives you the chance to reevaluate your reason. If you don’t have a strong reason behind your pursuits, failure is the perfect time to find that reason. It allows you to strengthen your intentions, helping you to keep failing until you succeed.

So, should you be afraid of failure? Yes—you’ll have to answer questions that will determine your future—but allow failure to build a sturdy foundation for your dreams and goals. Don’t fear it, welcome it!

#3 Being A Failure Builds Your Character

Nobody feels good when they fail. Failure makes us feel incompetent, worthless, and insignificant. Failure presents a package of negative emotions that will drag us down a lonely and hopeless road. However, failure is one of the few places where we can rise from the ashes.

Determination and drive don’t come from sunshine and rainbows. What kind of a person would you be if your life was a storm-free ocean? Calm seas with no turmoil—you’ll be the same person you’ve always been, safe within the borders of your boat. But, if the seas were rough—if you were tossed into the raging waters—you would’ve been forced to swim. And if you successfully pulled yourself out, saving yourself from the depths of the sea, you won’t be the same person as you were before. You now have a strength that came from the experience. You have become a fighter.

Those who fail and fail often are not afraid of the ocean. They once were, but the waves have made them stronger. So, should you be afraid of failure? Of course—you’ll have to swim for your life—but failure might just be the push you need to do greater things in life. Don’t fear it, face it!

Failing is scary, but it isn’t as negative of an experience as we think it to be. You need to fail. So allow yourself to fail, and fail often. Gather whatever courage you have and charge at this daunting monster. Don’t run. Don’t hide. Don’t let failure hold you back. Slay the beast before you and become the warrior you were meant to be.

 
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Posted by on October 4, 2018 in Writing Journey

 

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