What are you really chasing?

Three pairs of eyes stared me down, making me shift uncomfortably on my feet. “Take your own advice,” their gaze seemed to say.

I had just finished encouraging them to pursue their passions—shamelessly, boldly, unapologetically. But I hadn’t expected the question to turn back on me.

“What about you?” they asked. “What are you passionate about? Are you chasing it too?”

If I had known that was coming, I might have reconsidered stepping into the role of part-time motivational speaker.

The silence that followed stunned even me. Who was I to be giving advice? What made me think I had the right to stand there like I had it all figured out?

The truth was, I didn’t. I was no different from them—maybe even worse. I knew what I wanted, but lacked the courage to go after it.

I shifted again, awkward and exposed. If I were a few shades lighter, I would’ve been bright red from embarrassment. Seconds passed. The silence grew loud, buzzing in my ears. At that moment, I wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole. Anything was better than standing there, speechless, being schooled by my own students.

Then Amaka—the only girl among them—offered me a small act of grace. She motioned to a chair I hadn’t noticed before. It was the same dull gray as my plain T-shirt, as if the universe had a sense of humor. I sat down, took a breath, and tried to steady myself.

If there’s one good thing I can say about me, it’s that I’m open to growth—even when it stings. My internal conflict must’ve been written all over my face, because no one said a word. They just gave me space to sit with the question:

“What are you really chasing?”

That single question rocked something in me.

I realized I’d never truly stopped to ask myself that. I was always moving, always busy—and I thought that meant I was progressing. But was I?

The truth unraveled slowly. I didn’t know what I was working toward anymore. I had filled my life with safe choices—jobs that didn’t challenge me, roles that didn’t align with the things I cared about. I kept telling myself I was “waiting for the right time,” but really, I was just scared.

I’ve always been afraid to fail. That fear kept me from trying anything that wasn’t easy or guaranteed. I preferred the safety of small wins over the risk of real effort. I convinced myself that success at simple things was better than the shame of failing at what truly mattered.

In my head, failure looked like tripping in front of a stadium full of people during a race. I could hear the crowd’s laughter, see their fingers pointing at my dust-covered body. That picture stopped me from even thinking I could run. I never trained, never tried. I told myself I couldn’t—and so I didn’t.

But as I sat there, that image came back, clearer than ever. And suddenly, I wasn’t the girl who fell mid-race.

I was the one who never even left the starting line.

And that stung more than falling ever could.

I’ve always wanted to write—that much I knew. I didn’t talk much as a child, but I wrote in every book I could find. There was so much I had to say, and it was always easier to find expression through writing.

But fear of being bad at it made me hide everything I wrote. I’d tear up my poems and short stories. I could never finish a story—why put in all that effort only for it to turn out horrible?

Eventually, I became an inconsistent journaler. Then I stopped writing entirely. It stopped being my escape and started to feel like a prison. It began reflecting my inadequacy rather than bringing me joy.

I let myself believe that maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe writing wasn’t for me. Maybe it was just a phase—something momentary.

Being questioned didn’t magically fix anything or give me superpowers, but it forced me to really look at myself. I hadn’t done that in a long time — and it showed.

For someone who always says “time waits for no one,” I had spent a lot of time doing nothing.

I didn’t even answer the question I was asked—not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t. They understood. They were just grateful for my honesty. That was all they needed. Not perfection. Not a portfolio of achievements. Just the truth.

And the truth was: I wasn’t sure what exactly I wanted or where I was headed. But from that moment on, I decided I would try to find out.

I highly recommend baby steps.

Bombarding yourself with a heavy workload at the beginning of your self-discovery journey will most likely throw you off balance — and maybe make you quit before you truly begin.

The first thing I did after that encounter was start Heart Echoes, a TikTok account for my poems.

I fought through anxiety, self-doubt, and negative thoughts before I posted the first one. It wasn’t perfect or extraordinary — but I left it there.

In another post, I’ll talk about how it felt to put myself out there, the feedback I received, and why I know I’ll keep going.

My biggest support in this journey has been God. In scripture, I find the confidence I need to move forward — again and again.

For once, I’m taking my own advice.

Do I get nauseous at the thought of not doing well? Occasionally. Will I stop? No.

Are you scared of starting? Do you feel sick at the thought of putting yourself out there? Is anxiety or fear of the unknown holding you back?

You’re not alone. But the difference between us and the average Joe is — we’ll do it afraid.

When was the last time someone held a mirror to your own words?

If you’re walking through a season of uncertainty, know that God sees you—and you're not alone. Let’s keep showing up, even when we’re afraid. Subscribe, share, and drop your comment below. This is a safe space for us to grow, heal, and walk this journey—together.