The Space Between Who You Are and Who You Want to Become

I’ve often wondered how much of who we are is shaped by the decisions we’ve made and how much is shaped by the decisions we’re still afraid to make.

We spend years building lives around careers, responsibilities, relationships, and expectations. Eventually, those things become part of our identity. They’re how people recognize us, how they describe us, and sometimes, how we describe ourselves. But what happens when the person you’ve become doesn’t quite match the person you still imagine yourself being?

Not because you’re unhappy or ungrateful for what you’ve accomplished, but because somewhere along the way, you begin to realize there’s still more of yourself you haven’t explored.

I’ve been thinking about that quite a bit lately, particularly when it comes to my creative ambitions. I consider myself a writer, but even that description sometimes feels limiting. I enjoy storytelling, developing characters, imagining worlds, and exploring what those stories could eventually become. I don’t necessarily want to be confined to one creative discipline, especially when so many of them complement one another.

One of my greatest ambitions is to see a film I’ve written on the big screen. But my imagination doesn’t stop with writing the screenplay. I envision directing it, possibly composing parts of the musical score, and helping bring the entire experience to life. The same goes for my children’s books. I don’t simply envision them sitting on a bookshelf. I imagine those characters moving, speaking, singing, and introducing children to worlds that once existed only in my imagination.

Some might consider those ambitions unrealistic. Others might suggest focusing on one thing at a time, and perhaps there’s some wisdom in that. But I’ve never believed that having multiple creative interests necessarily means you lack direction. Sometimes those interests are simply different expressions of the same imagination.

Of course, imagining something and bringing it into existence are two very different experiences. Somewhere between those two realities, doubt has a way of introducing itself.

I think we all search for a certain level of comfort in life. Not necessarily the kind that comes from material possessions or having everything figured out, but the comfort that comes from knowing who you are, understanding your value, and being at peace with the decisions you make. For me, that comfort is closely connected to creativity.

I want to reach a place mentally where I can explore my ideas without constantly second-guessing whether they’re worth pursuing. A place where I can recognize my abilities without feeling the need to justify them to everyone else. But I also understand there’s a difference between believing in yourself and believing you’re incapable of being wrong.

I want to be confident enough to share my work, but receptive enough to recognize when it can be improved. Ambitious enough to pursue opportunities that may seem beyond my reach, but grounded enough to understand the preparation and commitment required to achieve them. Perhaps that’s the kind of comfort I’m ultimately searching for. Not a place where uncertainty no longer exists, but a place where uncertainty no longer prevents me from moving forward.

I’ve come to believe that fear and awareness are often mistaken for one another. Fear can convince us not to pursue an opportunity because we might fail, while awareness allows us to recognize that failure is possible without allowing it to determine our decisions. Fear makes us question our value, while awareness encourages us to evaluate our abilities honestly.

As a writer, rejection is something I’ve had to become increasingly comfortable with. You can spend months, sometimes years, developing a story, investing your imagination, time, and energy into something you believe has potential. Then you share it with someone, and they pass. Sometimes there’s feedback, sometimes there’s silence, and sometimes that silence can be more difficult to interpret than an actual rejection.

It’s easy to begin questioning whether your work is good enough or whether you’re pursuing something that may never materialize. But I’ve been learning that rejection doesn’t necessarily determine the value of what I’ve created. That doesn’t mean every rejection should be dismissed. Sometimes there’s something to learn from it, and sometimes the work genuinely needs improvement. Other times, what you’ve created simply isn’t what someone else is looking for.

The challenge is learning to recognize the difference without allowing either possibility to undermine your confidence. I don’t want to become someone who’s afraid of hearing no, but I also don’t want to become someone who’s unwilling to listen. There’s a balance between knowing your worth and remaining open to the possibility that you still have room to grow.

Something else I’ve come to appreciate is how much our mental environment influences our ability to create. When I talk about wanting a comfortable space to write, I’m not necessarily referring to a physical location. I’m talking about a state of mind where I can become immersed in an idea without constantly feeling distracted by the pressures surrounding me.

There’s a difference between having the time to create and having the mental freedom to create. You can have several hours available, but if your mind is occupied with responsibilities, financial concerns, or uncertainty about the future, those hours don’t always feel like an opportunity. Sometimes they feel like another obligation you’re struggling to fulfill, and I don’t want creativity to become that.

I want writing to remain something I look forward to. Something that allows me to explore my imagination rather than another responsibility competing for my attention. Of course, financial stability plays a role in that. Not necessarily because I associate creativity with wealth, but because financial security can provide options. The option to dedicate more time to developing a screenplay, invest in a creative project, or simply enjoy the peace of mind that comes from knowing certain responsibilities are taken care of.

But I’ve also realized that waiting for perfect circumstances can become another form of hesitation. There’s always another responsibility, another expense, or another uncertainty waiting somewhere around the corner. If I convince myself that I can only create when everything in my life is perfectly aligned, I may spend more time waiting for that moment than actually pursuing what inspires me.

Perhaps the goal isn’t to eliminate every distraction or concern, but to become mentally comfortable enough that those concerns don’t always determine what I’m willing to pursue. To acknowledge life’s responsibilities without allowing them to completely overshadow my ambitions, and to remain conscious of my circumstances without becoming confined by them.

When I imagine what I’d ultimately like to accomplish creatively, I see more than finished books or completed screenplays. I imagine sitting in a theater watching a film that began as an idea in my head. I imagine hearing music that I helped create accompanying a scene I once struggled to put into words. I imagine children watching animated versions of characters I developed, laughing at their personalities, learning from their experiences, and becoming immersed in worlds that once existed only on paper.

Those possibilities excite me, but there’s something beyond the accomplishments themselves that continues to motivate me. The possibility of inspiring someone else.

I’ve always appreciated how stories can influence the way we think, feel, and understand the world around us. A film can introduce us to perspectives we’ve never considered. A book can encourage a child to explore an unfamiliar interest. A character can remind someone of a part of themselves they may have forgotten. And sometimes, seeing what another person has created can inspire us to attempt something we previously believed was beyond our abilities.

I want to contribute to that. I want to create things that entertain, challenge, encourage, and perhaps inspire someone to explore their own imagination. But I’ve also realized that if I want to inspire others, I have to remain open to being inspired myself. That requires curiosity, humility, and the willingness to continue learning, even when I become more comfortable with my abilities.

I don’t want confidence to make me less curious, experience to make me less receptive, or the pursuit of success to distance me from the very things that made me passionate about creating in the first place.

There’s something both exciting and uncomfortable about envisioning a future you haven’t yet experienced. I can picture the characters, the performances, the music, and the audience experiencing one of my stories for the first time. In my imagination, those possibilities already exist, but reality operates differently.

There are opportunities to pursue, relationships to develop, skills to strengthen, and decisions that may or may not lead where I hope. There’s also the possibility that some of those ambitions may never materialize in the way I’ve imagined. I think being conscious of that possibility is important, not because I want to limit my expectations, but because I want to remain grounded in reality while still allowing myself to imagine something beyond it.

I don’t believe we have to choose between being ambitious and being realistic. We can recognize the challenges ahead without allowing them to discourage us from trying. We can accept rejection without treating it as a final judgment, and we can appreciate the lives we’ve built without assuming that everything we’re capable of becoming has already been realized.

I think that’s where I’m trying to find my comfort. Not in knowing that everything will work out exactly as I’ve envisioned, or believing that every idea I develop deserves recognition. And certainly not in reaching a point where I no longer have anything to learn. But in becoming secure enough with myself that uncertainty doesn’t feel like a reason to stop.

I want to be comfortable enough to take risks, but conscious enough to understand them. Confident enough to believe in my abilities, but humble enough to continue improving them. And ambitious enough to imagine something greater without losing appreciation for what already exists.

Maybe the space between who we are and who we want to become isn’t simply measured by our accomplishments. Maybe it’s measured by how we learn to navigate uncertainty, how we respond to rejection, and how much of ourselves we’re willing to explore along the way.

Because perhaps becoming who we want to be isn’t about reaching a point where we’re no longer afraid. Perhaps it’s about reaching a point where we understand our fears, recognize our worth, and no longer allow either one to make our decisions for us.

And maybe that’s where true comfort begins.