As I grew older, I envisioned countless future careers. A chef, a pianist, a dancer, a vet. While these ideas of future careers vanished one by one with the passing of time, there was one career that stuck with me: I still dreamt of writing. This idea stayed with me, even though my own self doubt tried to shake it off.

When I started traveling and exploring the world, I always took writing with me. I would write random notes in my journal or phone. Scribble down a quote on the palm of my hand so I could remember it for later. I wrote poems on public buses and bits of my potential autobiography on sleepless nights. I jotted down memories, insights, hopes, and moments of grief. I wrote pages and pages of research for my Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees. I wrote about beauty in the simplest things. The sun reflecting off the rain. The crunch of leaves after every step. The first light of sun after dawn, illuminating the sky with pink and purple hues. Writing allowed me to put words to parts of the world that I struggled to capture.

20 years after I decided to be a writer, I am still writing and always keeping it secret. But I came to a realization a few months ago as I began to approach the very scary age of 30: why don’t I share these ideas, these half formed thoughts, these works in progress with the world? Will anyone read them? Probably not. Will anyone relate to them? Maybe one or two. And that seems like enough to me.

Each of us is a work in progress. We are full of imperfections that make us unique. We are also scared of putting our work and ideas out into the world. What if no one reads it? What if no one likes it? To that I’ll say, who cares. Do it anyway. Impacting even just one person is enough. It’s okay to feel scared and doubtful. What matters is that we do it anyway.