December 18th. I woke up feeling a little better today—more driven, more positive. It’s strange how quickly emotions can shift, how yesterday’s self-doubt can loosen its grip with a simple sunrise. I applied for a job this morning. It seems promising, though I’ve learned not to pin too much hope on these things. Every job application feels like sending a message in a bottle: you throw it into the vast sea of cyberspace, hoping for a reply, but mostly it just drifts away, unnoticed. Still, there’s something grounding in the act itself—a reminder that I’m trying.

Yesterday, I launched my website on a whim. No perfect plan, no grand strategy—just a spark of impulse and a click of a button. It’s called Echoes from the Margins, and it started as something small: a blog where I could write freely, say what’s on my mind. But it’s evolving, as all things do. Now, it’s becoming a space for more than just my thoughts. I want it to be a platform, a gallery of sorts, for the art and voices that don’t often get a spotlight—the quiet echoes of creation that live in the margins.

The name feels bigger than me now, tied to a vision I can barely articulate. I want to showcase the work of others—my girlfriend’s stunning artwork, my friend Derek’s underappreciated photography, and even my own poetry. It’s daunting, though. I feel the weight of imposter syndrome pressing on me, that insidious whisper that says, Who do you think you are to do this? I’m learning to press forward anyway.

Launching a website might seem like a small thing, but for me, it feels monumental. It’s not just about the technical learning curve—although navigating platforms like Bluehost and Google Analytics is its own kind of mountain to climb—but about the mental hurdles. Can I stay true to myself while creating something that grows and reaches people? Can I avoid the trap of writing for algorithms, of chasing trends at the cost of authenticity? These questions linger as I plan for the year ahead.

The New Year is just days away, and it feels like the perfect opportunity to lean into this new chapter of life. I have a goal: to publish my first poetry book. I’ve decided to start small, with an e-book. It feels safer, less intimidating than jumping straight into print publishing. But that’s not the endgame—it’s just the beginning. Once the e-book is out, I want to refine it, learn from the process, and eventually create a physical book that people can hold in their hands. I’ve already imagined the price—something affordable, $20 or $25—and the feeling of someone turning the pages of something I created.

This goal isn’t just about publishing a book. It’s about proving to myself that I can do it. I’ve spent so much of my life second-guessing my abilities, hesitating to throw myself into the things I truly care about. But lately, I’ve been embracing a new mindset: if there’s something you want to do, just do it. Dip your toes in, take the leap. Life is too short to live on autopilot, cycling through the same routines without ever stepping outside your comfort zone. I don’t want to live like that anymore.

Creation, I’ve realized, is where I find my sense of purpose. It’s not about the outcome—it’s not about being celebrated or even fully understood. It’s about the process itself. Writing, painting, photographing—it’s all about bringing something into existence that wasn’t there before. It’s about the act of showing up for yourself, of pouring your energy into something meaningful simply because you feel called to do it.

For me, poetry has always been a quiet companion. It’s been there in the music I listen to, in the rhythm of hip-hop lyrics, in the sway of trees and the whisper of wind. But I never named it. I never claimed it as mine. That’s what this year is about: claiming poetry, claiming creation, and leaning into the vulnerability of it all. It’s terrifying to put your work out there, to know that some people will love it and others will hate it. But that’s the deal we make as creators. We open ourselves up to the world, not for the approval of others but for the fulfillment of sharing what’s inside us.

This new chapter feels both exciting and nerve-wracking. There’s no guidebook for how to do this. Publishing a book, running a website, navigating the world as a creative—it’s all uncharted territory. But I’ve done hard things before. I graduated with honors. I went to Bali. I’ve chased my goals and caught them, even when they felt impossibly out of reach. And now, I feel ready to step into this next version of myself.

I want this year to be about intentionality. Not just creating for the sake of it, but creating with purpose—art that comes from the soul, that resonates because it’s honest. I want to leave behind a legacy, not for anyone else but for me. I want my future self, my future family, to look back and see that I lived a life of intention, that I chased the things that mattered, that I showed up for myself, again and again.

So, as I stand on the brink of a new year, I remind myself: it’s not about perfection. It’s about showing up. It’s about diving in, even when you’re scared. Because the world needs art. The world needs creation. And most of all, the world needs us to believe in the value of what we bring to it.

Here’s to the New Year. Here’s to creation. Here’s to the echoes from the margins.