The beginning of my journey

"We all start small." Well, I guess we all heard that saying a lot. We may have even said it to ourselves when we have started something new and dared to step out of our #comfort-zone. As far as writing is concerned, this saying holds for me.

Books always have been enormously fascinating for me.

They let you easily escape from your world when it becomes too much for you to bear and make you dive into a new and different one. You can experience thrilling adventures, make friends with dragons, be brave, and master every challenge. Other books explain how the world functions and help you understand why things are the way they are.

I quickly devoured every book I could get my hands on. Nothing excited me more than a stack of books on the birthday table or under the Christmas tree. There was no moment more wonderful than starting to read a new book. It, therefore, comes to no surprise that I wrote my first stories and poems at the age of four.

While other children filled scribbling pads with pictures, I did it with words.

Writing felt utterly naturally to me, letting my thoughts flow and putting them down on paper.

Most of the stories I kept to myself, but the ones I liked best I gave away to my family. And to make the stories not only fun to read, but pretty to look at as well, I usually drew a nice colorful background with crayons on the white and partially lined pages. By this, the reading experience of my first stories became pretty colorful in the truest sense of the word.

I would probably have continued seamlessly and written one story after the other, if I hadn't received the harshest reaction I could ever have imagined to making a gift.

I was in the second grade and had written a story about the adventures of a little rabbit. The story was several pages of Din A4 long. I was damn proud of my work and couldn't wait to give it away. I imagined the joyful and proud face of the person receiving the present, and I got quite tingly at the pure thought of it.

I tied the sheets of paper together with gift ribbon to form a book, cut the edges jaggedly, and once again took my crayons to add a little color to the whole thing. I wanted everything to be perfect: the content as well as the outside.

I was as proud as humanly possible and firmly convinced that it would give the recipient a great deal of pleasure on his birthday.

Then the big day finally arrived. I excitedly presented my latest work and was looking forward to receiving a big smile and appreciation. I glanced at her with big eyes, jumping up and down to manage my excitement. The reaction that now followed, however, was entirely unexpected for me and was to reverberate for years to come.

Instead of the joy I had expected, I received precisely the opposite: disappointment and reproaches.

The giftee shook her head, looked down at the leaves in her hand, and sighed before she said in a stern voice: "You are getting old enough to give me real presents and not THAT! No-one wants to read this! You'll get pocket money after all. I expect something else by now." With these words, she dropped my lovingly crafted book on the table and went straight on to the next present, without paying any further attention to my work.

The clapping of the pages on the table made my heart burst into a thousand pieces.

She had not even looked inside. She did not read a single word! No comment on all the effort and love that went into this gift. NOTHING! If not, even SHE wanted to read it? Who actually would?

The pain was intense and created the belief that no one would ever be interested in the stories I write and the things I want to tell people; that I could never be able to give anyone pleasure with my stories.

I was devastated. My big dream of becoming a well-known author who brings joy to other people's life seemed to be over before it actually had a chance of getting started.

My father's attempt to turn this experience around to be positive didn't help either. On the next school day, he showed my work to my then class teacher, who read it enthusiastically to the class in the very first lesson. But it was too late. Instead of realizing that my father and my class teacher disagreed and considered my story worth reading, I felt humiliated. Everyone looked at me, and the only thing I had on my mind was to get out of the situation somehow.

After the experience of the previous day, I found any expression of enthusiasm to be a mockery.

When the girl sitting next to me beamed at me and admiringly asked if I had thought this whole story up and written it all by myself, I burst into tears.

This experience caused so much pain and self-doubts that it took me twenty-seven years before I dared to write down my thoughts and stories again. It took me a tremendous amount of courage to breathe life into the stories that have been alive in my imagination for years and to show them to another person.

I went through twenty-seven years of continually having exhausting fights between the inner urge to write and the immanent #self-doubts, where my #self-doubts always won handsomely.

But why am I telling you all this? Why don't I just tell a completely different story, as it is often told today under the sign of Snapchat, Instagram, and Facebook? A story that is backed by great pictures, which tell about breathtaking experiences without drama, doubts, or failures?

Very simple: Because life is not like that!

Life doesn't have a soft filter that we can apply to make everything look nicer and make the experiences and memories that hurt us disappear.

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When there is light, there is always a shadow as well.

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When you look at your friends' posts today, everything looks like a great holiday with a stream of great moments. But only, because nobody would take a picture of the fight that took place ten minutes later and ruined the whole evening, to share it with their friends afterward. We only see the beautiful part of the story and then wonder why the others have it so much easier and better than we do.

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No one can go through life without getting hurt.

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We all have our own complex story to tell about suffering, sadness, anger, fear, and despair. But the question is what we make out of these experiences and feelings.

Do we let the past determine our present and our future?

Do we give it the power to prevent us from doing the things that make us feel good and happy, or do we use it as a reason to change something in ourselves and the world around us?

I, for my part, have chosen the first option for far too long. I gave #uncertainty and #self-doubts permission to take charge of my life and buried my dreams and wishes deep in my soul with the inscription:

"Maybe, someday…".

#self-doubt and #insecurity probably will never disappear entirely, and that is completely normal and fine. Even the most self-assured people amongst us have self-doubts and insecurities from time to time. They keep you open for constructive #feedback and give you opportunities to grow.

But #self-doubts or #insecurities should never determine your thinking and acting.

Having realized this truth, I now decided to take the second option and use my experiences to give others courage and hope to work on the fulfillment of their dreams as well.

Now that I have the comparison, I can say with clarity: It is not easy. You have your successes and setbacks like always in life, but the feeling of making something positive out of your experiences is liberating — an experience I wish every person to have.

Be brave and dare to take the first step!

You will be amazed by the things that will happen. Not everyone will support you and cheer you on from the side, and you will have to overcome unexpected obstacles, but it is worth it! Once you have taken the first step, there is no turning back.

You will notice how good it feels to take back the power over your own life and not to leave it to the discretion of others.

Believe in yourself! You deserve it.

Have you maybe already taken the first step and would like to share your experiences? I am looking forward to reading about it!

Love,

Your Nadine