I am frightened to write. I find myself paralysed by the pen, holding a tight frame above the keyboard, fingers gracing the keys but not yet moving.

I feel weighed down by the stories and opinions inside me. Like Cathy at the window, they wail and whine to be set free, but I am frozen in fright, held captive by my comparison.

It’s simple – to be a writer, one must write. It’s a verb after all, a doing word. So who am I without the doing?

I’m a hospital of dying ideas, a morgue of stories I was too frightened to tell. Poems I found too twee and earnest to continue, stories I gathered ideas for but never began, opinion pieces I frightened off because there’s better out there.

And that’s the thing, there’s always going to be better out there.

History is full of incredible writers, artists, and poets who have withstood the passing of time. Whose books and words continue to be read, dissected, and adored by modern readers, despite the changing landscape around us.

I am not expecting to be one of the greats. My words may outlive me (as every artist dreams), but I know I will not make a mark on the world in the grand scheme of things. And that’s okay – that should take some of the pressure off. Yet despite that comforting fact, despite the freedom and rights I currently possess from my safe, privileged spot in the world, I’m still haunted by the what ifs and why tries.

As long as I can remember, I have wanted to be someone else. I would copy characters in books or on TV, mimic the girls in my life who looked or sounded better than me. I related mainly to the lyrics of the 2000s pop classic Don’t Let Me Get Me by Pink as a child.

Now I’m approaching my 30th year on this planet, and insecurity is still a common companion. It’s outlived jobs, life roles, friendships, and physical changes, and I’m terrified that’s how it’s going to be forever.

No matter the skins I shed, the things I learn or the changes I make, insecurity is always lurking in the corner. I can expose myself to as much art as possible, try to change my habits, persist regardless, yet insecurity is always lurking in the corner of the room like an unwanted guest. It’s a shameful secret, a ghost from the past that tarnishes everything it touches.

Insecurity is part of the process, I know. It’s part of being a writer, a woman, a human. But I’m tired.

I want to be able to write and create without second-guessing myself. I want to live the creative, free life I always dreamed of without questioning whether it’s worth it.

There’s so much more out there; everyone is better than me, no one cares anyway. These can be freeing thoughts when used in the right context. But tonight, I’m struggling to do that.

Write from the pain, write through the pain.

I’m choking down the fear and the shame and pushing through to say I’m tired, I’m scared, but I want to do it anyway.

I want to pick up a pen instead of the screen, I want to make my own stories instead of relying on others. I want to live and share and grow, not hold myself down because I’m scared.

I need to remind myself of this when things get dark. When I feel the sting of frustrated tears behind my eyelids, when I want to rip out of my skin because there’s too much going on inside.

It doesn’t matter what other people are doing or have done. It doesn’t matter how good they are, and how I can never compare. My words may not be as beautiful, or clever, or engaging. But they’re mine.

Writing is freeing. It is terrifying and exhilarating, and a passion I don’t want to burn out. So here I am.

“Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.”

• Louis L’Amour

Speak soon,

Rachael.