The Get-Happy-for-Life Scheme
When I was a little girl, I’d write silly stories about my pets. I’d write fake articles for fake magazines I’d created, and I’d write chapter one after chapter one of novels I knew were going to be the next best seller (they weren’t, of course, but we can dream a little, right?).
I couldn’t stop myself from writing.
It was my favourite thing to do; my favourite way to express myself (sometimes the only way I could express myself, like the time I broke up with my first boyfriend via a long-winded letter I’d written him).
Writing was a part of me.
I couldn’t comprehend it when school friends said they hated writing or they didn’t read. What kind of people were they?!
It was then that I realised writing needed to be a part of my future. It was mandatory; a non-negotiable.
Writing made me happy. It made me cry. It made me angry. It made me.
But growing up in a single-parent family had taught me that working hard was the most important thing. Getting enough money in to put food on the table outweighed dreams, hopes, and desires, so I never imagined I’d ever be able to make a living out of something I loved so much.
Because, that’s not the way life goes.
But when I looked at the clock in my 9–5, shut my eyes and prayed time would go faster for what felt like the millionth time, I knew something needed to change.
I was no longer writing as much in my spare time, because I’d get home from work exhausted and just want to flop on the sofa.
I was no longer travelling, another true love of mine, because I had a limited amount of days off from my job.
I was no longer creating anything because I was disillusioned with life.
If younger me, the one who’d eagerly crafted stories about bunnies and mice that were best friends, could have seen me then, she’d have probably written me some stern words.
Days ticked by into weeks, and weeks ticked by into years, and my creativity burnt out, taking with it a huge part of me.
I couldn’t do it anymore.
Every time I thought of that little girl and her stories, I felt ashamed. I felt horrendous guilt for letting her down, for showing her that her dreams and hopes weren’t significant enough for me to act on.
Then I saw other writers and creatives out there making their own way in the world, working for themselves and being successful.
It was mind-boggling to me, that it was possible to earn a decent living doing something you loved. Because wasn’t work meant to be a chore?
And I read their stories about their childhood’s filled with words and I felt my heart soar.
I wasn’t alone.
I wasn’t weird.
Acknowledging these successful freelancers meant acknowledging the little girl in me and her dreams. It meant showing her that her dreams mattered; that all those hours spent writing and creating weren’t worthless.
And so I did it.
I took that little girl’s love of writing and I turned it into a career. Yes, it was scary, but I kept her at the back of my mind every step of the way and that fuelled my fire.
Writing has always been a part of me — how could I have done anything else?
My story isn’t unique.
In fact, I bet you see some of yourself in it — maybe the little girl or boy in you who scribbled out stories on post-its and pretended they wrote for The New York Times.
It’s time to acknowledge their dream, their childlike innocence, and show them they had every right to embrace creating with open arms.
It’s scary, but everything’s scary.
It’s difficult, but everything’s difficult until it’s not.
Don’t you want to see what might happen if you cut the ropes and let loose that dream you once had?
I know, for me at least, I would have looked back on my life when I was eighty and regretted not giving it a chance.
It’s not a get-rich-quick scheme, but a get-happy-for-life scheme.
One step at a time is all it takes to go from being miserable in your day-job (that was me) to earning $5,000+ a month doing something you never dreamed you’d get paid for.
Give it a go.
For you, for your younger self, and for all those people out there who didn’t get to live the life they wanted.
