If I call myself a writer, why am I so scared to write?

I got laid off from my corporate job as a content writer three weeks ago. It’s a blessing in disguise, really. I’m free from my golden handcuffs, have a regulated nervous system for the first time in 2-plus years, get to rebuild my daily routine from scratch, have more time to pour into my music, and finally have time to write the pieces that I want to write.

Except that, where the opportunity of a blank page used to light a fire within me, the white screen of a freshly opened Word document now stares back at me like a black hole threatening to swallow me whole. In the weeks following the layoff, I’ve completely avoided writing anything new. Even the freelance pieces in my drafts folder are collecting dust like boxes in the attic. I’ve been a professional content writer for almost 10 years—it’s a title I pride myself in holding—and suddenly I can’t fathom the idea of writing anything. What happened?

For the majority of my career, I’ve been attached to a company—with an existing brand identity I could lean on. Full-time jobs, oscillating between editorial and marketing content writing, also left little bandwidth for personal writing, as if going to the office had vacuumed every original thought I had out of my mind. I’ve lost my own identity as a writer.

Now, when I look at a fresh page, I get a visit from my buddies Imposter Syndrome, Overwhelm, and Perfectionism. Not great writing companions, if I’m honest. And that leaves me where I am now: stuck between the desire for a perfect outcome and the outdated magazine and newspaper clippings I wrote 10 years ago. And with the last two jobs holding the only substance on my portfolio, it’s not exactly convincing.

But therein lies the problem entirely. The last handful of years, I’ve been on autopilot, cruising through catalog write-ups, neighborhood guides, and marketing collateral. Of course I always loved my roles and poured myself into my work, but jobs revolve around metrics. Outcomes. Results. Along the way, I fell out of love with the act of writing. The process. Writing simply for the sake of writing.

I need to reframe that blank page like I did the layoff. As an opportunity. As a journey. No more avoiding the starting line because my shoes aren’t tied on right. I need to take the first step, even if it feels like I’m barefoot. And the truth is, I’m not; I’m setting off again with 10 years of writing under my belt and a head full of article ideas I’ve been itching to get on paper. I just need to exercise the muscle. I want to create content that excites, that moves, that make people feel something. I want to fall in love again with drafting, editing, reworking, collaborating, and most importantly, making mistakes. Because now more than ever (hello, Age of AI), it’s what makes me human. Those quirks are going to set me apart as someone who writes with love and purpose and conviction.

So, I’m kicking perfectionism to the curb (high standards, you can stay), and embracing every aspect of what it means to be a writer. And hopefully, before too long, those empty pages will start to fill again.