I don’t really recall when it started, but for as long as I can remember I’ve written in capitals when writing by hand. I told myself when I was young that my handwriting was horrible and believed it ever since.
That is, until yesterday.
A few days back I started writing my morning pages by hand. For the first few days I wrote how I always write, by printing capital letters one after the other. Yesterday, a couple hundred words in, I started writing in cursive. I couldn’t even tell you why—it just… happened.
For the next few lines, I winced a little as I got used to the unfamiliar (physical) feeling and the despaired in the deeply familiar (mental) feeling—that is, the feeling of hating myself a tiny bit. A few lines later, and I felt almost neutral toward myself. A few more lines and I almost felt… good? I almost liked my handwriting, in fact.
What followed was a strange wave of emotions. Pride. Sadness. Excitement. Disbelief. I’d believed something about myself for years—decades—that might never have been true. I’d told myself that I was deficient in this way, and that I probably always would be.
What other beliefs am I holding onto that might not be true? I have no idea, but I’m determined to find out. I consider myself to be generally optimistic about my capabilities. I tend to think that I can do almost anything that I put my mind to. And yet here I was.
This might seem small—and it is in the grand scheme of things—but it surprised me more than I thought it would. I surprised myself. I’m borderline-embarrassed to even write this post, but it turns out that leaning into discomfort is sometimes a good thing to do.