I’m Reverting To My 9-Year-Old Self To Be More Productive

I’ve been feeling pretty down lately. I’m not sure if it’s the quarantine blues setting in or if I’m just stressed out with life in general. We are trying to play some major catch-up financially after being laid off for 7 months, so I suspect that has something to do with my current emotional state.

The thing is, I don’t want to feel this way.

Sometimes when I’m feeling down, I like to bask in my depression. It just feels so good to swim around in sadness for a while. You know, turn on some Alanis Morissette and watch yourself cry in the mirror for a good hour or so.

However, that’s not where I’m at. Right now, I want to be productive. I have this angsty feeling that I need to produce and create as much as I possibly can in the coming days, weeks, months. However, that becomes tough when you’re not feeling up to anything mentally.

It’s as if my will for productivity is at war with my emotional, mental well being, and it’s not going well at all.

The other day I was waiting in my car to pick my daughter up from school. A kid about 9 years old walked by, and he sparked the inspiration I so badly needed at that moment.

This kid — this awesomely unaffected little boy — was having a full out conversation with himself as he walked home from school. He was laughing and muttering, using oversized hand gestures and simply having a grand ole chat all by his lonesome.

Being today’s day and age, I checked to see if he had earbuds in or a Bluetooth headset — maybe he was talking on the phone? Nope, this conversation was just him, and I loved seeing it.

My inability to create comes from the same dank corner of my brain, where I retain all the reasons not to sing and dance loud and unabashed in the street. I am so damn scared of what people will think of me.

When I was young, I wasn’t afraid of anything. As a teenager, I’d wear mini jean skirts with striped multi-coloured leggings and dye my hair bright orange, then sing cabaret at the top of my lungs while walking down a busy school hallway.

Even younger than that, I’d shove my Barbies in the faces of strangers walking past my front garden where I’d be playing outside. I’d start telling them a tale I had come up with and, because people were far more polite 30 years ago, they’d listen and tell me I was quite the storyteller.

Then something happened. Maybe I received one too many rejections. Or the general whispering of life finally got to me, but over time all of my favourite things to do became less important.

As creators, we must live a life that inspires us. I am inspired by the weird. By those odd little moments that make us bark unexpectedly with laughter. I’m inspired by awkward silence and surprised glee, outbursts and jazz hands.

One part of my brain keeps telling me that I need to create, but the other tells me to worry about the judgement that everyone is placing on my creations. I realize that the only way to conquer this is to become a kid again.

Not give a shit about the judgment. Not care about what others are thinking.

It’s time to walk down the street and have a serious conversation with myself. Because how else will I know what my head and heart want to build if I don’t talk about it with the one person who matters most?

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Previously published on medium

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