The Moment It Began.

“Why I Started"

When people ask me why I started, they usually expect a simple answer. Something clean, polished, maybe even Instagram-ready. But the truth is, the beginning was anything but tidy. It wasn’t one big moment of lightning-strike inspiration. It was a slow accumulation of small things—the kind you almost overlook at the time, but that later feel like turning points.

I remember a morning that stands out, though. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was so ordinary. I was sitting at the kitchen table, staring into a half-empty cup of coffee that had gone cold. Outside, the world looked alive: cars rushing past, people with somewhere to be, kids laughing as they walked to school. Inside, I felt stuck.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have things to do. I had a job, a routine, responsibilities. But none of it felt like mine. I was moving, yes—but not in a direction that mattered. And that emptiness, that quiet voice that kept whispering, “Is this it?”—that’s what made me stop.

The question hit me harder than I expected: If I keep living exactly like this for the next ten years, will I be proud of it? The answer, without hesitation, was no. That honesty was uncomfortable. It forced me to admit I wasn’t chasing anything that truly belonged to me.

So why did I start? Because not starting was becoming unbearable.

I didn’t begin with a perfect plan. I didn’t even know what the finish line looked like. But I knew I had to create something of my own—something that felt alive. At first, I doubted myself constantly. Who was I to try? What if I failed? What if I embarrassed myself? These thoughts didn’t disappear overnight. But there came a moment when I realized that doing nothing—staying safe—was its own kind of failure.

The first step was small. I told myself, “Just show up today. Don’t think about the next five years. Just today.” And so I wrote a single page. I recorded a single idea. I shared one thought out loud, even though my voice shook. It wasn’t impressive, but it was mine.

And something shifted.

I started noticing how different it felt to work on something I cared about, no matter how messy it looked. The energy was different. Instead of feeling drained, I felt charged. Instead of waiting for the day to end, I found myself losing track of time. And in those little sparks of flow, I saw glimpses of who I could become if I kept going.

But it wasn’t easy. There were days I wanted to quit. Days I thought, “This is pointless, nobody cares, maybe I should just go back to what’s comfortable.” On those days, I had to remind myself why I started in the first place. I didn’t begin this because I thought it would be easy. I began because I wanted to stop living passively, to stop letting my story be written by circumstances I never chose.

With every stumble, I learned something. I learned that failure isn’t the opposite of progress—it’s part of it. I learned that consistency matters more than intensity. And I learned that sometimes the act of showing up, even when it feels pointless, is what builds strength.

Over time, the question shifted from “Why would anyone care about this?” to “Why not me?” Because the truth is, every person who ever started anything worth doing began exactly here: with doubt, with fear, with uncertainty. The difference wasn’t that they had everything figured out. The difference was that they kept moving.

When I look back now, the reason I started is simple: I was tired of waiting for permission. Tired of thinking life would somehow hand me meaning on a silver platter. I realized that meaning isn’t found—it’s built. And if I didn’t begin, nothing would ever change.

So I started. Clumsily, quietly, imperfectly. I started because I didn’t want to reach the end of my life knowing I had the chance to create something and chose not to. I started because even the smallest attempt felt better than endless regret.

And here’s the part I never expected: once you begin, the path unfolds. You meet people you wouldn’t have met otherwise. You find skills you didn’t know you had. You experience failures that teach you more than success ever could. Starting isn’t the end of doubt—it’s the beginning of discovery.

That’s why I started. Not because I knew I would succeed, but because I finally understood what was at stake if I didn’t even try.

And if you’re listening to this, wondering if you should begin—wondering if you’re ready, if you’re capable, if it’s worth it—I’ll tell you the truth I wish someone had told me. You’ll never feel ready. You’ll never have perfect certainty. But you don’t need it. What you need is one honest step forward. And then another. And another.

That’s how it begins. That’s why I started. And maybe, just maybe, that’s why you should too.