I'm sorry but I'm afraid.

Notes on fear, surrender, and blocks.

I have a confession. The real reason I haven’t been consistent on Substack or TikTok isn’t a lack of time or ideas—it’s fear.

At first, it was small, something I could push past. But as my audience grew, so did the doubt. I started wondering if I was enough. It felt like people came for Dr. Chelsia, the expert, the authority—but what if Chelsia, the person, wasn’t enough? At least, not enough for someone to pay a subscription to.

So, I convinced myself I had to make it enough. I started overpromising, trying to prove my worth, adding more and more just to feel valuable. But in the process, I kept under-delivering—because many of the promises I made weren’t aligned with who I truly am. They reflected who I thought everyone wanted me to be.

I’ve sat with myself, wishing my audience knew about all the posts and guides I’ve created—the ones that never made it to publication. I know I’m smart. I’ve designed my life in a way that others could learn from, and I want to share. But every time I reach the point of moving past the draft phase, I convince myself it’s not ready.

I tell myself it needs more. That I need a designer, an editor—something to make it better before I put it out there. But the truth is, that was just an illusion. What I was really telling myself was that I wasn’t enough.

Here’s the reality—I am a 35-year-old neurodivergent Black woman who left a six-figure job to become a writer because I was burned out and my family needed me but I am scared to death and sometimes I feel stupid because surrendering to it is harder than I expected. I second-guess myself, even when every sign affirms my choice. Because let’s be real—surrender is easy in theory, but when bills are due? That’s the real test.

Fear is a sneaky thing.

It doesn’t always announce itself as terror or panic. Sometimes, it shows up as hesitation—an invisible hand hovering over the keyboard, a thought that loops in circles before it ever reaches the page.

Today, I sat down to write, and nothing felt right. Every sentence felt too exposed, every word too vulnerable. The energy inside me wanted to move, but fear had built a dam.

I tell myself I’m not afraid of failure, but maybe I am. Success, too, carries its own weight. The creative within me doesn’t like pressure—the pressure to perform, to meet expectations, to be something specific rather than something true.

Fear whispers,

“What if you misstep?”

“What if people see you?“

“What if you don’t get it right?”

There is a part of me that just wants to play, to create without overthinking. But another part holds back, afraid that if I’m too open, I’ll be judged. If I say too much, it’ll be too much. If I say too little, it won’t be enough.

I think about the version of me that has been hurt before. The one who tried, only to be dismissed or misunderstood. I don’t want to put her in harm’s way again. I want to protect her. But sometimes, I wonder—am I protecting her, or am I keeping her trapped?

Fear is a loop, but I don’t have to stay inside it. The only way forward is through. So today, I write. Not perfectly, not fearlessly, but honestly.

And maybe, that’s enough.

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