What If I’m Not Interesting Today

On fear, self-worth, and learning to trust the quiet rhythm

I take a deep breath and set the intention to clear my mind.

I don’t need to be anyone or anything in this moment.

I set a timer for 30 minutes. My vow is simple: this doesn’t need to turn into anything. It’s just me, facing myself — on the page.

I catch myself, already, overthinking, trying to turn it into something. It just has to come through. Even if it’s monkeys jumping on the bed or some nonsense, that’s what it’ll be.

I’m letting go of expectations. I’m not watching for errors or asking, “Is this what I meant to say?” Not now.

Just letting whatever comes… land here.

I catch myself mumbling while I write, thinking about the warm tonic beside me. I want to sip it, but my fingers keep moving. I take a sip — had to — and now I’m typing with one hand. Then back to two.

I think this is boring. And maybe it is.

I often feel like I have to be interesting. When I’m not on some excited, magnetic high, I avoid people.

Even writing that, I pause. Is it true? Maybe. I wrote it down.

There’s something about what flows out unfiltered. It may not be exact, but it’s honest.

Fear, Worthiness, and the Need to Be Chosen

I’ve noticed this pattern — especially when talking to someone for the first time, usually from a dating app. You want to be a ray of sunshine. A beam of light. You want them to pick you.

And there it is: Read me. Pick me. Like me.

But… do I like myself?

Because when I’m in that mode, the answer is usually no. But when I’m doing what I love — reading, writing, creating, supporting others — I drop into something different. I’m just doing. I’m in it. Not overthinking.

I like myself more when I’m not trying so hard. When I’m present. Not worried. Not afraid.

I’m 43 years old and have spent most of my life worrying. Fear has been part of me for a long time. Even typing that brings up shame — but it’s true. I’ve worried myself sick more than once.

I’ve been working on it. Still, fear rises — the survival kind. It shows up suddenly, and even though I know what to do, I forget. I’m great at advising others, but when I need it most, I don’t always reach for what I know.

So I keep myself busy. I shoot myself out of bed when it hits in the morning. It helps. It keeps me from spiraling into dread.

But I’m realizing now that to really shift these patterns, I can’t just override them. I have to feel through them.

That doesn’t mean diving into every fear or feeding it. It means holding myself. Placing my hand over my heart. It might feel cringy at first, but that simple act — comforting the part of me that’s afraid, breathing through the emotion, letting it rise, letting it pass — is essential in breaking patterns.

Sometimes it comes back. And when it does, I try to meet it with presence. I say, I hear you. I know it’s scary. But in this moment, you are safe.

Right now, I have everything I need. And that’s enough. Because really — how much of life is wasted worrying about a future we’re not even guaranteed?

Not to sound dramatic, but if this were your last moment, would you be worrying? I doubt it.

You’d just be. We never know when it’ll all fall apart — or when it’ll all turn around.

We can only meet ourselves here, with what is. Lemons and all.

Right now, I’m fearful. It’s just sitting here with me. I try to reframe it when I can. And if I can’t, I give it a little space — a few minutes to feel it without feeding the story.

It’s scary to let an emotion in. Sometimes it feels like it might swallow you. But I’ve found that feeling is the only way through.

“When a person has a reaction to something in their environment, there’s a 90-second chemical process that happens in the body. After that, any remaining emotional response is just the person choosing to stay in that emotional loop.” — Jill Bolte Taylor

So I feel it. I breathe. I let it move.

And if it returns later, I will do the same.

Then I go on with my day, holding at least one thing I’m grateful for — something steady, even if the fear still lingers.

When I don’t practice gratitude, I feel the difference. The heaviness. The shift in my energy. When I’m not consistent, I notice the change in frequency.

Gratitude is a practice. A choice I return to.

After most meditations, I pray.

One thing I often say is, “I’m grateful for what was, what is, and what’s to come.” In that moment, I visualize my life.

I remember the beauty of the past. I feel into what’s here now. And even though I don’t know what’s ahead, I try to trust that whatever unfolds will serve the highest good.

Some days I write it down. Other times, I notice it while doing something simple — cleaning my home and feeling the peace of a clear space.

Sometimes I call a friend and feel grateful we ever met. Or I look at my child and say thank you — for grounding me in what really matters.

These moments shift something. They change what moves through me. But it has to be real. Gratitude can’t be forced.

And neither can the important things. Not love. Not creativity. Not connection. Not clarity.

They come when there’s space — when you’re ready to receive. When you’re present enough to notice. When you allow the natural unfolding.

Anchors and Edges: What Routine and Discomfort Can Teach Us

Another thing I’ve learned: know yourself, but try new things. You might be surprised by what supports you.

Lately, I’ve been noticing a pattern — how often I assume I won’t enjoy something, only to find it actually grounds me.

Before COVID, I used a cleaning service. I thought I didn’t enjoy cleaning. But now I clean my own home — and I like it. I find peace in it. It gives me a rhythm. The space feels good afterward. There’s a weird kind of satisfaction I didn’t expect. I’m grateful to have the time to do it.

It’s true that routine provides an anchor. It helps regulate us. Research shows that habits reduce stress and mental fatigue. They create stability, especially when life feels uncertain. In mindfulness, these routines become rituals — tiny ways we return to presence.

But when comfort becomes a hiding place, we stay small. We loop. We avoid growth. That’s why stepping out of the familiar matters. Even a little discomfort creates space for change.

A small shift in routine can awaken something. Neuroscience calls it neuroplasticity — our brain’s ability to adapt through new experience. And in spiritual practice, discomfort is often the edge of transformation. A sacred invitation.

The truth is, you don’t have to choose. Routine gives you something steady to return to. Newness helps you expand. One grounds you. The other grows you.

The beauty is in the dance between the two.

Reminders to Return To

You don’t need to be interesting or “on” to be enough. Just showing up — tired, quiet, uncertain — is already something.
Fear may still show up, even after you’ve done the work. It doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re human.
Feeling your emotions — without clinging or resisting — is how you move through them.
Gratitude is a practice. It can be quiet: a prayer, a memory, a clean space, or a kind word.
Routine can ground you when things feel uncertain. Let it be simple. Let it support you.
Growth often begins with a small stretch — one new response, one unfamiliar step, one moment of courage.
You don’t have to choose between grounding and expansion. Real transformation lives in the space between.
The most beautiful things — love, creativity, clarity — tend to arrive when you stop forcing and start allowing.

If this resonates, here are some reflections to sit with:

What routines make me feel safe — and which ones might I be holding onto out of fear?
Where in my life could a small stretch open the door to growth?
How do I usually respond to fear — and what would it look like to meet it with softness?
What does gratitude feel like when I’m not trying to force it?
What’s one quiet reminder I want to carry with me today?