Writing My Own Story

I’ve been quiet for some time now, which is not as uncomfortable as it may sound. I tend to be a quieter person, especially in large groups.

Being quiet as a writer is less familiar to me, though, at least as it pertains to sharing my thoughts. I’ve gotten into a rhythm over the past 10 years of sharing my thoughts and life with the world. At first, was unsettling to open myself up; now it feels somewhat unsettling to keep to myself.

I believe that healthy discomfort can help us to stretch and grow. I also recognize that it’s easier to preach this than practice it. It’s taken me some time to accept that life comes in seasons. In this season, I continue to express myself through writing, though not in the same public form to which I’ve been accustomed.

One of the conditions leading to my writing quietly is the scarcity of time. It’s always scarce, I know. This is true for all of us. Yet there are times in our lives when we appreciate it more and appreciate it less. In this season, I cherish it perhaps more than ever. Time cannot be replaced. Time cannot be renewed.

How much could one give to receive more time? Everything and nothing, all at once. It’s a paradox that we all encounter in some form, at some stage. We’re so good at frittering it away, or letting the moments pass us by, as if we’re witnesses to life rather than its author.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot recently, wondering what it is that prevents me from writing my own story. There are so many constraints in life, some imagined, some self-created, some inevitable, some inescapable. It can feel maddening to discern what’s holding us back and how we can break free from those shackles.

In my case, as I imagine for many of you, a lot of it feels self-inflicted. Let me explain what I mean by speaking about a choice I’ve been making recently, at first unconsciously, and now with intention and a bit more confidence.

For the first time in my life, I’ve started identifying myself as a writer.

In a sense, I’ve always identified as a writer, but in the timid, shrinking, impostrous kind of way. When it came up in conversation, which sometimes it would, I would hedge, with, “Well, kind of, but…”

Recently, occasionally, sometimes, in certain circles and with certain people, I’ve noticed myself responding to the inevitable question of what I do with the answer that’s been sitting in my heart for decades. With all the courage of a kitten, I’d muster: “I’m a writer.”

I’m surprised by how good it feels and each time it comes out, I vow to myself that I’ll own it more forcefully, more confidently. I’m also surprised by how foreign it feels — that this is something I’ve known about myself and that many other people know about me, too. Why is it so hard to voice what’s true?

I don’t know the answer to that, though I have my suspicions about where these ideas come from and how I’ve internalized them. And yet, there’s something about my recent experience that has me introspecting with fresh eyes.

There’s something dehumanizing about how we think about ourselves in this country. We talk so much about identity and how we see ourselves. But typically, our self-articulations are based on categories that society has defined for us and shaped by how other people see us. I’m a Sikh. I’m a man. I’m an American. Sure, these things are true, and I know how to perform them because I’ve grown up in this society. When people ask me who I am and how I identify, I know precisely what I’m supposed to say: I’ve rehearsed it a million times.

What I don’t know, and what I haven’t learned, is how to share the ways I see myself.

This is, in part, why it’s felt so challenging to announce myself as a writer. I worry about what other people think, of course. This is part of being racialized in this country. How other people see us can be the difference between life and death. But more than that, I feel limited by what other people expect of me, and what we all expect of one another. Who could I be if the world didn’t put limits on me?

I attended a literary event in New York City last week in which a number of authors were celebrated. There were authors present who I’ve been reading for years and who I and many others would describe as some of the best writers of our generation. I was eager to spend time with them and enjoyed the event thoroughly. About halfway through the event, it dawned on me that these authors, as well as everyone else in the room, saw me as a peer. I hadn’t even registered the fact that I was being celebrated there with these authors, too.

On the subway ride home, I chatted with a new friend with an incredibly successful writing career. After she got off at her stop, I reflected on the night and had a new thought:

I’ve been so worried about how other people see me that I can’t even see myself.

Am I not rendering myself invisible? Aren’t some of these constraints just in my own head?

I’m thinking a lot these days about what it means to live into my own vision; to not react to what life presents me, for better or for worse, but to have a real hand in writing my own story. It’s a new experience for me. Perhaps it’s a part of what human maturation looks like for all of us. Or maybe it’s just me; maybe this is a challenge that only some of us struggle with.

Either way, something about this feels new and exciting and uncomfortable in all the right ways. I’m eager to see how it unfolds. As it does, I will continue doing what I can to step into my power, to guide this process, and ultimately, to author my own story.