Breaking out of the Internal Prison.
Built by my own design. (An open letter)
“I’m shutting everything down.”
The words left my throat before I wanted to feel them. See them. They danced across my tongue and filled the atmosphere with the most terrifying truth. An observation of the inevitable. A weight that sank deep, deep down into my chest.
On the other end, were my clients. Genuine people who trusted me to ghostwrite for them. To build their personal brands on LinkedIn.
It started with a single question that left me paralyzed:
“How are you doing?”
And then the truth spilled.
A dam broke.
Words I didn’t know were true, stacked in a tower of internal resentment. A mirror of self-hatred staring back at me with drooping, judgmental eyes. Black pits with fangs, gnawing into me. My skull. The nape of my neck. Crawling within my veins. Curling my toes.
I said things I can never turn back from. I confronted facts that made my mind spiral for hours, for days after. I ended up looking back at the last decade and wondering if the one thing I always thought I had ended up being completely untrue.
I always thought I knew what I wanted to do, and be. I love writing. I love photography. I love art. I love design. I have many skillsets and have embraced hopping across many landscapes of obsession that fuel my veins with fire.
I went full-speed-ahead on the wrong highway and crashed into a wall.
Felt the heat rush up my legs before the pain could. Watched the implosion burst in every spiritual blood vessel. Relished how the shrapnel of vision, passion, and a strange love for many things splintered my bones.
On top of that, I’m late. Very late. I’m two weeks late writing this letter. I’m jotting it down on a Friday evening—might not finish it; you’ll be able to tell by whether or not I delete this—because my brain has been so irrevocably scrambled the last few days. Or ten days. It’s not really a “few” if it extends beyond that, right?
I’m writing this letter to myself, first, so I can write it for you, second.
I’m writing this for the generalist inside of me who’s really damn good at brainwashing herself into building businesses out of survival, but not passion. For the writer inside who equally obsesses over piecing together the thoughts of a brilliant madman in her fiction, and the art and science of meaningful branding in a world where brands have lost their human pulse. For the creator who values the intricacies of design, human relationship, and work forged within the bones of daydreams and nighttime fantasies that have never fucking touched a lick of artificial intelligence.
I mourn for the entrepreneur within me who created businesses and plunged into them in order to save others she loves. I mourn for the writer who’s so entranced by her thousands upon thousands of unfinished fictional pieces, that she corners herself within a prison of her own design. I mourn for the photographer who gave up too soon in a field that didn’t feel right at the time, but now feels oddly correct for a type of business that may serve her in unexpected ways. I mourn for the fact that I feel sorry for myself at all, because I’ve done this to myself and the only one who can fix this disastrous state is me.
This letter will remain unedited because you need to feel the stream-of-consciousness leak into your eyeballs. I want you to feel my words. I need you to understand the weight of this, because maybe it will carve a path forward for you, too.
I need to address my neurodivergency. I know I have ADHD. It’s my best friend and my personal devil. I’m not sure about others. Sorry, the Others—because to capitaliez it gives it a name. A calling. I’ve been advised to explore other areas from people I respect. To address the potential caverns of abstract thought and too-literal-sometimes-thinking that leaves me in a state of simultaneous reckless passion and unmovable paralysis.
I’m very grateful for the endless stream of ideas. I’m so delighted I’m never bored. I love that about my brain. But the other parts of my mind and my brain—this twin sensation—leaves me battling what calls to my head and what sings to my heart.
I teach myself skills to build businesses to escape. This is a positive thing. I can leverage this for years to come. I’m not afraid of how the world will change. I’m not afraid of AI, because I know how to learn skills and develop enough “learned passion” to practice a discipline that will remain timeless. I’m not scared of that.
But I am realizing I’m my own greatest enemy.
If it wasn’t clear at the beginning of this newsletter—I’ve shut down my LinkedIn personal branding business. I’m in the process of offboarding my work and educating clients so they can handle themselves after August is over.
I’m committed to contract work for a couple of clients who are not focused on building personal brands. Where I can breathe a little, to not hate the work I’ve created as much as I have. To try and pursue my other curiosities without the pressure, without the chains. Chains I’ve forged myself.
I care about all of my clients too much. In my mind—my Cage of Liars and Melodrama and Poets—I’ve betrayed them all. I’ve let them all down.
If I have worked with you in personal branding and you are reading this…
I’m trying not to apologize again. We’ve already spoken. We’ve already wiped our hands and are planning to exit cordially with you feeling good. Good, supported, and confident going ahead. You will be fine. I can promise you that.
We are all the main characters of our own story, are we not? Protagonists of our own narrative. There’s a narcissistic romanticism there that I admit I’m drawn to.
My clients will move on. I will move on.
I just need to let go of this tremendous, soul-ripping guilt.
I’m committed now to seeking professional help with more purpose.
I’ve gone to therapy before. I’ve talked to professionals before. Years ago, when my depression threatened to keep me in bed, numb as a skeleton, my therapist had rescued me. I owe her a lot.
Thing is, I’m terrified. I’m terrified to seek help. I’m terrified to medicate my ADHD, or my anxiety, or my depression. I’m terrified of what might be lingering under the folds of my neurological activity that I don’t know yet. I’ve been told I may have autism. I may be on the spectrum. I want to know. I want to learn every little thing about myself so I can pursue the future with acceptance and truth.
I’m choosing to put myself first.
Maybe for the first time, ever.
If you’ve made it this far, you should know this newsletter will restructure. A little bit. It’s for generalists, like me. That’s already coming true. Writings for the seekers. Artists. Creators. Worldbuilders.
I’m building a couple small projects while refusing to pursue another business that leaves me broken and miserable.
It’s hard to focus on one thing.
It’s even harder to force yourself into one thing because you think you must do it to provide for and support the ones you love.
It’s the hardest thing to realize you’ve been building 80% of your projects out of fear. Not out of love. Not out of the passion you deeply, obsessively hold.
I’ve cried more than I’ve ever cried. Days and days of sobbing. Of releasing.
Maybe that’s one of the most telling signs. One of the Visible Truths I should listen to.
The odd thing is once I finish writing this, I will dive in. I will continue to write. I will continue to photograph. I will continue pursuing what lights me up.
I’m not a person who likes to sit around and wait for things to happen.
That’s not me. What is me is creating to find internal clarity. To create the True Self.
Don’t sit around and wait for signs to sucker-punch you.
Listen to the signs that are already there.
Forge the key to escape your Internal Prison before you pace around in your cell, feeling sorry for yourself, wondering what the hell happened.
I’m doing it now. I refuse to pace any longer.
It is time I destroy this prison. It’s time I escape.
I’m never going back.