I am one of tens of thousands of people who has begun 5+ blogs in 10 years and has, each time, stopped posting after the third or fourth article.

I am one of millions of people who worships the written word but becomes too intimidated to speak each time it’s my turn. Why is that? Why am I like that?

I had an “ah-ha!” moment on a flight last weekend while listening to an old Maria Popova interview. When asked who she writes Brainpickings for, she replied that she writes for an audience of one — herself. She writes to synthesize the insights and beautiful language contained in others’ works, for her own enjoyment. She embraces her own near-obsessive fascination with the human condition and channels it in a way that brings her delight and further insight, and the fact that millions of people read her musings is an interesting byproduct.

I started reading Brainpickings several years ago. When I first came upon it, my reaction was an inexplicable inner pull that toed the thin line dividing admiration and jealousy. Some part of me believed I’d fallen behind: this person had actually gathered the self-discipline necessary to do the kind of writing that I had always dreamed of doing — and at a very high level — and there was only room for one blog of that kind on the internet. She’d beaten me to the punchline.

After some time, my ego quieted down a bit. I recognized that the jealous-admiration I felt was pointing me toward a sense of purpose that I needed to take seriously. Of course there was room for all the writers on the internet. The inner voice that says all the words have already been written was simply trying to save me from the vulnerability of letting my own voice out.

When you grow up feeling misunderstood, like all the things that you think and feel deeply about are the least important things to everyone else (except a strange few), you start to think that you, yourself, must be kind of strange. That there might just be something fundamentally off about you. When you feel that way, you have two options: you can bury the part of you that others don’t seem to understand. Or, you can embrace that part of you because it is an essential part, and be a little lonelier while you find your way.

Our culture at best doesn’t value more contemplative, sensitive folks and at worst, mocks them. I subconsciously chose to bury those parts of myself, at least temporarily, thinking it would make life easier. I didn’t realize until years later that those parts of me needed to be nurtured and validated on a regular basis in order to maintain a sense of wholeness. I can’t be all me without bringing that piece out into the world and owning it.

Hearing that Maria Popova writes her blog for her own enjoyment helped me realize that she is simply a human being spending her days pursuing something that brings her joy. She isn’t, contrary to my younger self’s belief, a unicorn crowned with special powers that no other human can ever again possess. She wasn’t given her job — she created it. There is nothing keeping me from doing the same thing, in my own way.