How to Overcome Self-Imposed Excuses in Pursuing Passion

How to Overcome Self-Imposed Excuses in Pursuing Passion by Neaki Moss Have you ever found yourself caught in the throes of an intense desire to pursue a passion, only to be ensnared by a web of self-imposed excuses? If so, you might be questioning the reasons behind this internal conflict. Walk with me as I unravel my personal journey, delving into the intricate “how” and “why” of these struggles. You might even glean valuable insights to support someone else navigating similar challenges.

Allow me to transport you back to the moment that sparked my resolve to share this story. It’s a bit bittersweet to acknowledge, but the bulk of my 36 years has been spent wading through the murky depths of poverty, grappling with the heavy shadows of depression, and confronting the stark realities of homelessness. These profound experiences have compelled me to scrutinize my existence and my choices, ultimately leading me to this pivotal juncture where I unearthed my voice through writing.

For many years, writing has been my refuge, a cherished sanctuary where I could pour out my thoughts, emotions, and the tumultuous journey I’ve endured. The act of sharing my work became not just a creative outlet but a necessity, driven by an earnest desire to illuminate the path for others who might be wrestling with their own demons. I began to share my writings on social media platforms like Facebook and through my YouTube channel, Neaki Moss Music. While my follower count remains modest, each individual who resonates with my message holds immeasurable value to me. If my words can touch even one soul, that is the achievement that fills my heart with purpose.

As I diligently honed my writing abilities, a thrilling idea took root within me: the exhilarating thought of stepping onto a stage to perform my poetry at an open mic night. With excitement bubbling inside me, I hunted for local venues, envisioning the moment I’d share my creations with an audience that could feel my passion. Yet, time after time, an unseen force pulled me back. Fear seeped through the cracks of my determination, sowing seeds of self-doubt about my courage and aspirations. In the days leading up to each event, I would psych myself up, chanting, “I will go, I will go!” as I rehearsed my poem with precision, shaping every syllable with care. Yet, when the day finally arrived, a relentless tide of excuses would crash down upon me: “I’m too exhausted,” “I’m not adequately prepared,” “This poem doesn’t resonate with me,” or “My pieces lack the depth I strive for.”

As I reflected on my journey, it became clear where my fears took root. Living with dyslexia has meant navigating the world’s complexities of reading and writing with trepidation. The prospect of public reading? It felt like an insurmountable mountain looming over me. To truly grasp my experiences and the origins of these insecurities, we must return to my formative days in the second grade at Flamingo Elementary in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

Education Nightmare

It was nearly three decades ago, yet the memories linger in my mind like a haunting melody, each note echoing with painful clarity. I can still envision the imposing figure of Mrs. Panic, a tall and willowy woman whose very presence seemed to suck the light from the room. She stood at the front of the classroom, her bony fingers gripping a red chalk piece as if it were a weapon—a stark contrast to the nurturing, cheerful teachers who typically inspired wonder and delight in learning. Rather than fostering growth, she wielded her authority with a heavy hand, unleashing cynicism and negativity on the innocent minds entrusted to her. I often ponder the battles she must have fought in her own life that led her to unleash her demons onto a vulnerable child like me. Mrs.

Panic became one of my earliest tormentors. Though Mrs. Kelly, my kindergarden teacher, held the title of my first daunting teacher—infamous for her fierce disciplinary tactics—but Mrs. Panic left psychological scars that still ache. I recall the day Mrs. Kelly harangued my cousin, belittling her with words so sharp they cut deep, resulting in a distressing injury that felt as emotional as physical. The exact details of my own experiences with Mrs. Kelly are a blur—perhaps my mind has shielded me from those harsh recollections—but the overwhelming sense of worthlessness and terror she instilled in me has not faded with time; it resonates still.

I can vividly picture myself, heart racing, when I needed to ask Mrs. Kelly for permission to use the bathroom. The memory is suffused with dread, knowing the fate of another student who had received a punitive punishment for making a similar request during our tense quiet time. My anxiety surged to an unbearable height, and ultimately, I succumbed to the humiliating reality of having an accident. While Mrs. Kelly’s relentless criticisms haunted me, it was Mrs. Panic’s psychological torment that truly paralyzed me, leaving wounds woven deeply into the fabric of my self-worth.

By the time I reached second grade, I was ensnared in a struggle with reading and writing that felt insurmountable. Mrs. Panic had a bizarre teaching method; she would meticulously write questions on the chalkboard, expecting us to copy them onto our paper before formulating responses. This task seemed simple enough on the surface, but for a child like me—lost in a labyrinth of confusion—it became an exercise in futility. “Write what you see,” she would sternly command, her voice dripping with impatience. I earnestly tried, but each attempt only deepened my confusion, leaving me frazzled and exasperated.

Each morning was a fight against mounting dread as I crossed the threshold into that stifling classroom, where the air felt thick with tension. The sound of her mocking voice, “Are you going to be ornery today?” pierced through my defenses, each utterance feeling like a fresh wound. My troubles only intensified until a compassionate soul finally recognized that I struggled to see the board clearly. The revelation that I needed glasses brought a flicker of hope but did little to alleviate my difficulties. The letters appeared bright and distinct, yet their meanings danced tauntingly out of reach, intensifying my feelings of inadequacy.

It often felt as though Mrs. Panic relished in my struggle, her unyielding comments like daggers flung at my already fragile spirit. I can recall with striking detail the day my brave cousin Andrea refused to let Mrs. Panic's cruelty go unchallenged. “Stop belittling her!” she shouted, confronting the teacher who had just sneered at my reading ability in front of the entire class. “Oh, you can’t read,” Mrs. Panic mocked, and in that moment, I vowed to forsake reading and writing entirely. I truly believed that I would forever be seen as stupid, unruly, and worthless—after all, didn’t adults always tell the truth?

Discovering the Truth

Everything began to shift when my second second-grade teacher (because I failed second grade obviously) stepped into my life, igniting a flicker of hope within me amidst the oppressive darkness. When my family relocated to Pensacola, Florida, the thought of starting anew filled me with unease. As I walked into that vibrant classroom for the first time, a whirlwind of nerves blossomed in my stomach, fueled by a mix of trepidation and excitement. I distinctly remember the moment I entered, my heart racing and eyes darting around the room at the colorful decorations and engaged students. I had already met Ms. Pugh, who seemed to radiate warmth and kindness; she appeared to have walked out of the pages of a fairy tale, too enchanting to be entirely real.

At first, I admired her from a distance, captivated by her youthful exuberance and genuine spirit. However, the thought of academic challenges loomed large, and reading felt like a seemingly insurmountable obstacle—my nemesis in the world of education. The idea of reading aloud twisted my stomach into knots, and I feared desperately that my classmates might uncover my secret: that I could not read. The specter of ridicule shadowed me, casting a pall over what should have been an exciting new chapter. Yet, Ms. Pugh was everything Mrs. Panic was not—vibrant, enthusiastic, and radiating a kindness that drew me in. I felt a deep sense of gratitude towards her, akin to a platonic love that emerged from her unwavering support.

One fateful day, destiny arranged a quiet moment just for us in the classroom; it was a precious cocoon of solitude. With my gaze lowered, I felt exposed as she gently probed into my reading abilities, seeking to understand my struggles. Unbeknownst to me, she had already perceived the depth of my difficulties. Panic surged through me at the thought that if she fully understood my challenges, her kindness might evaporate like morning mist. But then, something miraculous happened—she leaned closer and said, “It’s okay if you can’t read.” Those words sliced through my tightly held fears, and for the first time, an overwhelming wave of relief enveloped me—a soothing balm for my battered spirit.

“What can you do?” she asked, her voice warm and inviting, gesturing toward the vivid educational posters that brightened the walls. Most of them were enigmas to me, except for the bold map of the USA and the colorful alphabet that danced with possibility. As we navigated the expanse of the alphabet together, I revealed that while I could identify letters when called out, the jumble of words was a foreign language, each squiggle mocking my attempts to understand.

It was at that moment that Ms. Pugh recognized my dyslexia, a term that had never graced my understanding before. Instead of showing frustration or disappointment, she embraced the challenge, equipping me with tools and strategies that would prove invaluable throughout my journey. I won’t pretend it was a magical transformation—I didn’t become a voracious reader overnight. In fact, the first time I read a book from cover to cover was not until my early twenties. However, thanks to Ms. Pugh’s unwavering support and belief in my potential, I was set on a path that would ultimately lead me to who I am today. For that, I will remain forever grateful, carrying her lessons with me as a beacon of hope amidst the darkest storms of doubt.

I didn’t succeed despite my dyslexia, but because of it. It wasn’t my deficit, but my advantage. Although there are neurological trade-offs that require that I work creatively [and] smarter in reading, writing and speaking, I would never wish to be any other way than my awesome self. I love being me, regardless of the early challenges I had faced.” –  Scott Sonnon, martial arts world champion and author

Finding Strength to Face My Fears

As I take a moment to reflect on my journey, I realize I have mustered the courage to confront one of my deepest fears: reading my poetry in public. While I’ve navigated the waters of public speaking on various occasions, sharing my poetry aloud feels like stepping into a vastly different landscape—one filled with trepidation and vulnerability. Public speaking is my sanctuary, a space where I can engage fervently in discussions, my voice carrying conviction. But poetry? It’s a different kind of beast—it is raw, intimate, and deeply personal. Opening the gates to my world of words, knowing that they could be scrutinized or even torn apart by others, is nothing short of daunting. It’s easy to see why so many shy away from the spotlight; I nearly let my chance slip through my fingers, too.

Earlier that day, I boldly declared on my new Facebook page, dedicated to my music channel, that I was ready to face this fear head-on. Yet, as the moment approached, I felt a ripple of doubt wash over me—tempted to retract and confess my impending failure instead. And just when I needed a flicker of encouragement most, a miracle happened: a simple yet profound comment from my paternal grandma lit up my screen—“You got this.” Sometimes, such small gestures carry the heaviest weight. Her unwavering support kindled a spark within me, illuminating my determination to forge ahead. With that newfound fervor, I climbed into the driver’s seat of my emotions, ready to confront what terrified me most.

The Evening at Wolverine Farm Publick House

When I arrived at the Wolverine Farm Publick House for the Gulo Gulo Poetry open mic night, a rush of emotions surged through me, my nerves pinging like a struck chord. The warm, inviting atmosphere of the venue, with its intimate lighting and rustic decor, was buzzing with excitement and conversation. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods mingled in the air, creating an inviting ambiance. I slipped in just in time to participate in the writing workshop, which proved to be a golden opportunity filled with insightful tools and vibrant exercises to sharpen my craft. However, as the open mic segment began, reality hit me like a sharp gust of wind: I was the second poet scheduled to perform. I hastily signed my name to the list, acutely aware that if I allowed myself even a moment to second-guess, I might lose the courage I had summoned.

Standing up to share my poem, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I stumbled over a word, my hands quaking from anxiety. The more I fixated on not faltering, the more my body betrayed me, shaking uncontrollably. I wrestled silently with the overwhelming fear of failure, trying desperately to keep my legs steady while my mind buzzed with a cacophony of doubts. It felt like climbing a sheer cliff—how was I supposed to navigate this whirlwind of thoughts while reciting my deeply personal poem? Somehow, I managed to push through. When I reached the final line, I shut my laptop and glanced up, only to be met with the sight of a full house—approximately thirty eager faces turned toward me, their applause cascading over me like a comforting wave of acceptance.

As I returned to my seat, a stunning girl with vibrant red hair turned toward me, her emerald eyes sparkling with admiration. “Wow, that was so beautiful!” she exclaimed, and in that instant, I felt a tidal wave of love and encouragement envelope me, a sensation I had never before experienced so profoundly. Yet, even after achieving something so meaningful, the specter of self-doubt crept back in. The poets who followed me were undeniably talented, their words weaving intricate tapestries of emotion, and I couldn’t help but compare myself to them. But I reminded myself of a crucial truth: they are not me, and I am not them. Ultimately, what mattered was my unwavering courage to perform, and that realization filled me with immense pride.

How You Can Help

I feel compelled to share this chapter of my story because it serves as a heartfelt call to action for anyone who wishes to uplift someone navigating similar fears. It doesn’t take much effort. As I mentioned earlier, my grandmother’s brief yet powerful message—“You got this”—was precisely the lifeline I needed. It may appear to be a mere collection of words, but the knowledge that someone believed in me gave me the critical push to step onto that stage. Never underestimate the transformative power of your words; they can have an immeasurable impact.

You don’t need to be a renowned author or a celebrated poet; if your words come from a place of authenticity, their resonance will be profound. So, stand firm for someone grappling with their fears, ready to bridge the chasm that separates them from their aspirations. A simple message—a genuine “You got this”—might just be the miracle they need. You may not see yourself as a beacon of hope, but your ability to uplift others is a gift that can spark extraordinary change.

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