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A personal journal entry - April 24th, 2026

Over the past week, Julia and I have been watching a Netflix series called “Untold”. It focuses on interesting and personal stories relating to sports of all kinds. The stories are engrossing and often times showcase a common theme, going farther than anyone would have expected through dedication. The result can be uplifting or terrifying. The best ones are the former.

The series is motivating in a way that makes me feel like a failure. I’m watching these people dedicate themselves completely to their personal goals without regard for anything else. They know that doing so will be selfish and hard on those around them, they know that they’ll miss family and friend obligations, but they are unflinching in their determination. It’s hard not to measure myself up to their success when I know in my heart I am not putting everything I can into my dreams and goals. I am currently four months into writing my first book, the one that has haunted me since my father’s accident. I’ve had a journal since about the age ten. I always wanted to be a writer and tell this story. But when I really look at myself, I am not dedicated. At least, not how I’d want to be.

I should be working on this book for an hour a day minimum. And yet, I can’t seem to set aside time for it. My drive is not there. I do not have the mental toughness to be selfish in the face of the normal obligations of daily life. I find myself in an endless cycle of cooking, eating, doing dishes and cleaning. When I do have time for myself, I find myself trying to take a nap or mindlessly scrolling on my phone. The mental load it takes to write this story of my father’s death and how my ten year old mind was altered into believing in divine intervention has taken a toll.

I want to be tough enough. I want to set aside the time and push everything else away. I have no guarantee this book will be picked up by a publisher. I have no guarantee that it will sell if it does. What I do know is that if I do not finish this book, it will eat me alive. If I do not write something I’m proud of, it will haunt me.

Watching these sports documentaries makes me realize how little I am willing to risk to be successful. It makes me realize I’ve prioritized temporary comfortability over enduring happiness. It’s motivating seeing people beat the odds, but it’s also humiliating for the ego if I take an honest look at my life. It hurts to say but I am not proud of who I am right now. Yes, I have overcome a lot so far and worked on myself and even outlived my father, but those are checkpoints, not the finish line.

Knowing I am capable of more and only being held back by nothing other than myself is a terrifying realization. I have worked so hard to silence the voice in my head that calls me a failure. I live my life attempting to minimize panic attacks and the shame that comes with them. In this effort to soothe and protect my mind I have also become soft.

Comparison is the thief of joy, but also a motivator for success.

-A.S.

Thanks for reading.