I used to have this belief that everyone everywhere was keeping tabs on my failures. Well, not even my failures necessarily, but everything that I did that failed to be spectacular. Throughout high school (and even middle school), I was the only one among my friends who knew exactly what I wanted to do in college: I was going to become a journalist. Graduating early thanks to being born early in the year and being placed a year ahead, I was sixteen when I enrolled in university, seventeen when I started the class Basics of Journalism.
To say I hated it was an understatement. I loved university, my new friends, and I was obsessed with the huge campus. But the classes itself gave me headaches and, unlike what I'd fantasized for years, I felt out of my element. Everyone in there seemed to know every relevant journalist in history, and I was only there because… I wanted to write. When I had my first assignment having to explore the TV news format at eighteen, I was mortified. I hated every second of it.
I was working full-time to pay for my classes, so it should have been a no-brainer that if I was hating it that much, I should just drop out, or at least consider changing majors. But that is not what happened. For two years, I kept studying Journalism, and I continued to hate it, because I was terrified of what people would think if I quit.
This wasn't about dropping out. I was the first of my family to go to college — there would be no shame in dropping out, because I was the one paying for my studies. No, this was about something else: this was about admitting to everyone in school that I had been wrong.
In my head, I would become the talk of town. Never mind that I'm from a big city and had been an overachiever my whole life. I'm not sure exactly what scenario I dreamed up, but it probably involved being banned from entering restaurants while people whispered about me. Have you heard? She was so sure of herself for so long, and now she realized she made a mistake.
Listen, I know how silly this sounds. Much worse things had happened and were yet to happen. But knowing what I wanted was the one solid thing I had going. If that turned out to be wrong, I was afraid I'd lose my identity in the process. If I wasn't a future journalist, what the hell was I?
Certainly someone everyone would frown upon.
Eventually though, it became unbearable. I was even miserable at work, because it meant I was spending all those hours working for a paycheck that would go directly towards school. At that time, I made R$ 800/month working as a receptionist full time, and my monthly tuition for only two classes (what I could afford) was R$ 600/month. The remaining R$ 200 was for mostly for eating and bus fare. At the end of the month, I never had enough left, and I resented that so much of my money was going straight into school.
It became unbearable. I had to drop out. I did.
In shame, embarrassed to bring it up, crying my heart out.
And then you know what happened?
Nobody. Fucking. Cared.
The most reaction I got, from either family or well-meaning friends, was something like, “Oh? And do you plan on going back to university later, to study something else?” (I did, two years later). If people even remembered that I had spent the previous years going on and on about how I'd become a famous journalist, nobody commented on it.
I was the only one paying attention to my promises and my false starts. They were only for me. The people around me, regardless of how much they loved or disliked me, were all too concerned with their own promises and false starts to pay attention to mine.
All of this goes to say: hello, Substack. Hello, newsletters. Once I would've been afraid to start a new journey and be judged, “people” (never made out who exactly, but “people”) watching me closely to see if my new pursuit would be soon abandoned or followed through.
Now I welcome this new pursuit. I make here a promise to send to your inbox daily essays — sometimes short, sometimes a little longer — that I call the Daily Writer Diaries. Soon, I'll start sending serialized fiction work as well. I may keep this up forever, or I may lose momentum after the first few weeks. But I reserve the right to perhaps fail at my promise too, as you'll probably soon forget it if I do, and likely not think differently of me if that's the case.
As I start this new journey, let me ask you: is there something you've been meaning to start but been afraid of what people would say if you couldn't keep up? Is there something you've found yourself stuck doing for God-knows-how-long and you're afraid that if you stop, people will think harshly of you?
I give you permission to let go of these thoughts.
It's only you paying attention. Set yourself free.
Until tomorrow,
Gabhi
Here I am, your first fan. As usual, good work and thank you for your creativity.
I am — as always — so excited to follow your new journey, wherever it leads. <3