Some mornings,
I don’t want to begin.
Not because I’m tired,
but because beginning means admitting that I’m not there yet.
Still becoming. Still unfinished.
Still showing up to do the work
no one claps for.
Consistency is not heroic.
It’s not loud.
It doesn’t make for a good story until years later.
But it’s always there —
quiet,
repetitive,
borderline boring.
The truth is:
the people we admire most
are usually the ones who did the dull things longest.
The unsexy habits.
The ten-minute warm-ups.
The early nights.
The silent commitments
no one asked them to make.
There’s nothing magical about it.
It’s not a gift.
It’s not discipline tattooed on your chest.
It’s just a choice made over and over,
in rooms where no one’s watching,
on days when you’d rather not.
Sometimes I feel like quitting.
Not because it’s hard —
but because part of me still wants ease
to mean something.
But I’ve learned to stay.
To lower the volume of doubt.
To let my standards be louder than my mood.
And when nothing else works,
I remember:
I don’t need to believe in myself.
I just need to begin.