Fear in One Hand, Joy in the Other

If life starts feeling good, don’t panic.

Don’t stop to overthink it. Don’t dismantle it looking for the catch. Keep moving.

I spent years not writing because that voice—you know the one—ran the show: You’ll never be good enough. You’re from a small town in West Virginia. Who are you to think you can do anything special?

The sad part is, I am one of the most special people on this planet. I just wasn’t taught to believe it. And yet here I am: writing, publishing, people reading, people returning. It feels amazing and terrifying at once. Like holding joy in one hand and fear in the other, trying not to drop either. Fear means you’re awake. Joy means it’s real. Let fear hum in the background, but don’t let it steer.

Momentum shows up in a lot of disguises:

In the work: it’s choosing the next sentence instead of the safest silence. Not perfect, just forward.

In a connection that’s shifting: it’s knowing when a chapter has done its job. You can care and still step aside. That isn’t failure; it’s motion with integrity.

In a friend’s new love: it’s remembering that someone else bragging about their “condom warehouse membership” romance doesn’t mean you’re lacking. That’s their plotline, not yours. Comparison is the fastest way to stall your own momentum.

Sometimes forward momentum means holding on.
Sometimes it means letting go.
Sometimes it means stepping aside so something new can take shape.

You don’t have to promise forever. Promise movement. Keep your hands open—joy in one, fear in the other—and walk. Let fear ride along if it must, but it doesn’t get the map.