I have always known Writing to be the thing I would like to make a career out of. This had not occurred to me until I was in college, and I would not call it as a “passion” then. But the thought of writing just makes me feel relaxed and at home. It opens up my sensitive soul and relieves my heavy heart. It also lets me impart ideas and realizations I did not even think I would be capable of having. Writing has always been at the tip of my consciousness, but it had been repeatedly ignored ever since I started working at an advertising agency as an Account Executive.
That was a job I had a love-hate relationship with. The process of digesting and getting used to it in the first two years took a lot of work. There were good days but the process was mostly draining, and in the succeeding years it just dried me up of any motivation in writing I could possibly have. A part of me wants to rebel and write something, but the hectic and endless tasks flowing in from the office is pulling me to put that responsible and energetic Account Executive hat back on everyday. I get urges throughout the day to unload thoughts on long form, but I could not bring myself to sit down and start typing on a blank document. There also seemed to be a lack of compassion from the higher-ups, like my hard work was neglected and not enough. There was no mentor figure I could look up to either. It left me feeling frail, hollow, and lifeless each night. I had let myself sink so deep into a dark hole. Even mornings became filled with fear and shame and self-pity.
I aimed for gentleness and grace, believing it would lead me to a kinder, lighter, and slightly happier place.
And so I tried. I tried real hard amid the continuous coordination work, draining receipt of demands and orders, and the difficult interactions with colleagues. I tried being soft instead of strangling and fighting back with the demons that keep stabbing me down. It was a long process, but a stroke of confidence managed to get into me and I was able to stand up. Next thing I know, I accepted a new job in the same industry but with a more compelling offer. It became a little bit clearer for a while; I thought I was going to be able to shoot myself straight out of the hole and finally start feeling normal. But I found myself again in a familiar yet uncomfortable place, and it still felt uptight and uncreative. There were nights when I just ran in circles down that claustrophobic dark hole, trying to chase my sanity.
But I knew I needed to keep finding my way out. Instead of pushing myself hard to jump higher and escape faster from the darkness, I deliberately chose to slowly crawl my way up and focus on each step I take. I took my time even if the journey was not getting any sweeter. I had placed myself in a reflective mood where I would let myself think and pick practical ways to move along.
And then I saw the light finally touching my skin.
All of a sudden I recalled what I really am and remembered the place where I have always wanted to be. I have become unrecognizable in the dark, even to myself, for the past four years. My interest in writing has been struggling to save me and get noticed behind the thick foil of impulses and temperaments my first job had wrapped me around in.
When I finally found Writing again, I embraced it tightly with eyes closed, like one would after not seeing a friend in a long time. And when I opened my eyes, it’s like finding myself in a beautiful, vast, and sunny garden. There are talented people around who are passionate to keep the flowers and grass alive and thriving. This is home.
I learned to accept all my aches and confusions with ease, and I am ready to embrace creativity. It was a necessary process for me to go through. I feel more renewed, and I trust that I am capable of making my way to a good place.