I gave up on myself.

A note on audacity, fear, and rejection.

There was a shift. There always is. A moment or perhaps, a series of moments where we were disappointed. Maybe a no was hurled in our direction. Too many no’s. It could have been a plan that went awry. Expectations remaining unmet. I felt this. The shift. The shift in me.

When nothing seemed to be working, as if my career was trying to force me out, and leave me on a winter-chilled doorstep to fend for myself. An unexpected feeling that was about to become familiar. I threw myself into self-employment in 2018 with a ravenous hunger that I knew I could satiate.

I sent cold emails. Tried new things. Dare I say it, I hustled. I knocked on doors, said yes more times than my lips had ever uttered a yes, before. I took each no in my stride and moved on. It paid off. Things worked. It was hard, not always guaranteed, but it flowed between the feast and famine, that creatives wear like second-skin.

It wasn’t so much about what I did, but how I felt. I felt strong. I was bold. The kind of naivety that makes you deliciously determined. Self-assured. I was audacious. I hadn’t yet been burned, so I danced naked in the flames. I believed in my work and in myself, I believed in the good of people, and I knew that I had to make this happen for myself.

I kept on, keeping on with a tenacity in my bones, then we found ourselves in the age of COVID. I was catapulted into the truth of how brutal the publishing industry was, after my first book came out, and well, all of the industries that intersect with publishing. When you live in a classist, racist system that favours the privileged, follower counts, and nepotism; it doesn’t actually matter about the content of your work nor character. I had to reconcile with the lived truth that the UK was not ready for Black women to be front and centre in the wellbeing space, something I already knew but was further cemented. Gatekeepers gone gatekeep.

I was in a wave of other Black creatives who were handed magical opportunities in 2020, thrust into the spotlight and given platforms, deals, and sponsorships, pushed to the front of following lists, to avoid any accusations of racism or unconscious bias. Then a few years later, once the gaze of the world had moved on from its moment of guilt-driven performance and fear, we all realised that there would be no support or longevity. No more spaces in “newly-diverse” panel talks, promises broken, funding removed, budget roll-backs. A simple return to what once was, because nothing had ever changed. When you act from fear instead of care, this is inevitable.

I lost my hope, and that hope needed grieving. I took a step back, not sure where to go next. Finding comfort in the shared stories of Black, Brown and all the folk in the UK who didn’t grow up with money or connections, some whose work was doing better in other countries, some who were seeing their work ignored, the cruelty of seeing your work copied by someone who doesn’t look like you and celebrated, but rejected when you are the face of your work. The same dry-old doors shut. Nothing new to report here.

I wanted to give up. I was desperate to. It felt evident to me that the quality and integrity of my work could not outrun a ton of things that I couldn’t control. I could see myself leaving myself. Sinking into depression. I probably spent 18 months in that.

No money. No ideas. No work. A season of no.

A state of apathy. The curse of what you do for work being such an expression of your entire flesh, skin, heart and soul. There were days when I didn’t want to be here anymore, I didn’t want to live, I was exhausted by the hoops one has to fight through in order to live. I chose to cling onto life, because life is why I’m here, not for the capitalist nightmare that has convinced us is a dream, but for rosebuds and drippy mangoes. I am in such a deep romance with life, I always have, but sometimes its shadows and the messages of what we must do here, threaten to take us out.

I cried. I did the work, because one thing about me, I will always do the damn work. Slowly, I started to find healing. New ideas came to life. A little excitement. But, I wasn’t ready to find or even reconcile with the parts of me I had lost.

I lost my audacity and confidence. I lost my fire. I lost my belief in myself, and quite frankly reader, it still hasn’t fully returned. I shrunk, all poppy-sized and fearful.

I did an absolutely amazing course with Lucy Sheridan and Kirsty Raynor called Corporate Connect, on shifting your B2C offerings to B2B. I now have a pretty great consultancy offering to take into corporates, in an effort to reimagine social impact. I’ve worked on it extensively, I believe in it. It’s really fucking good, actually, because in my core I know I am really fucking good at what I do.

I know what I need to do, so why haven’t I done my outreach plan yet? Because I’ve talked myself out of it. I have a beautiful idea and solid plan for a lifestyle brand, that’s pretty bold, so what would potentially stop me from doing the big version of it instead of the DIY, cute humble version? Talking myself out of it. Why have I not tried to get a new literary agent when I have book ideas? Yup, I talked myself out of it.

A new trait I’ve inhabited that I’m desperate to shake. I don’t want it. I don’t want to talk myself out of things. This isn’t about the work-hard, hustle culture that I’m in constant opposition of, this is me doing the things I actually want to do, but having resistance because of feeling rejected, and allowing fear to swallow me up.

I always speak about choosing information instead of assumption. Yet I’ve made a whole ton of assumptions:

I’ll just get a no.
It won’t work out.
I know what’s going to happen.
There’s no way I could get start-up money for that.
These things don’t happen for people like me.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

I’m bored of myself.

I have compassion for myself but I’m also over it. I’m over this acquired soundtrack of disinformation that I keep playing to myself. So, that has been my challenge of late, to stop talking myself out of things. A return to audacity not by way of delusion but via truth.

The truth is that I know the woman I am. I know that I deserve to be here. I know of my wisdom, talent, skills and delightful wit. I know how much love I hold and share, I know the unique lens through which I see the majesty of the world through. I know how loved I am, how many lives I’ve helped in many different ways. I read all of the messages I receive saying so, I listen to all of the voices who praise and celebrate me, if I truly believed them, then I would be acting differently, more boldly. I know who I am, and I can no longer afford to allow some no’s, disappointments, and archaic systems to allow me to give up on myself.

Here I am, not fully recovered, always healing and about to send a ton of emails, write proposals, look into funding routes and get myself back out there, because I refuse to say no to myself, if someone hasn’t even said no to me first. And, you know what? No’s are okay, they are inevitable, they are not a rejection of who we are, they are simply an opinion, and we must never change who we are because of an opinion. Onwards, my loves, onwards.