How often do you take a look at your own life, your own actions, and ask "What am I doing?" I do that a lot.

THE THING: I am perpetually paralyzed by fear (and now annoyance at not completing that alliteration) in the face of things I truly care about.

THE PROBLEM: Naming the fear is the furthest I’ve come.

THE GOAL: In life? In this article? I don’t know. But I want to find out.

THE PROCESS: Won’t be pretty, but is self-analysis ever? Maybe exploring the last time I did nothing when I wanted to to say everything can provide some insight.

THE EXAMPLE: It was last Friday night and I was at an open mic. Despite my ravenous rampage to find myself an open mic in the past, truly I was content with just watching my friend. And then came the chance, the chance to perform—or the chance of the ­­­chance. All my friend had to do was ask if there was an extra spot. I froze. I thought of the poem sitting heavily on my mind, stored conveniently on my phone. The poem I screamed to city streets, the poem I made a video for to prove that action shouldn’t always be the precursor to reaction but rather a state of being. The poem that explained how I felt in that moment. The poem that sat at the top of my throat, and in that moment, slid down my esophagus instead of my tongue. My friend knew I wanted to perform it, but she did her part. She asked me. And with the baton placed into my hand, I remembered self-growth isn't a relay; it's a solo event. And besides, I never did track.