Act. It may transform you.
When I write, I write in small font, quietly, like I live. I feel a bit sick inside each time I send the words out for others to read. I hover, like a feather just connected by the tiniest bit still to the body of the bird, ready to be blown down by your judgement.
In fact, I will not usually wait for you to judge me harshly, I will simply do the beating up myself, to save time.
The words I use to keep myself down reside inside so deeply, placed there so innocently by a father who was himself just a hurt child, that they will probably never go away. I may never, to my core, feel quite good enough, ever.
And that is sad, and it makes it hard for me to just be and live and let go. But it is not the only thing I have inside of me.
All the other parts I have filled up with love and good deeds and happiness. Sometimes I have to pretend a little so that I can push myself to do what I need and want to do, but the doing erases all the inside doubting, and no matter how the quaking self begs to hide, it is done.
Actions matter; and despite our fear, we can always act.
And the truth is, over time, that voice of doubt and self flagellation quiets as you override it more and more. You believe in the words of kindness from your lover, your friends. You feel worth.
You start to write in large font, even if the whole while you still feel like the wind will be too much. It only takes you and your decisions this time. The voices of the past mean nothing in the face of acting in the present.
So just do it.
Your future self with thank you. You will become a bird poised for flight, the wind your ride.