On Becoming (Otherwise Known as Finding Courage)

It seems I have a problem. I worry too much about what other people think. It’s part of my nature to be empathetic to other people’s needs and alert to their expectations. My radar, like that of other writers, is finely tuned. My heart tells me to transform myself into shapes to suit others, even if it makes me uncomfortable. My head resists.

I steel myself. Contortionism for the sake of others is unwise. That way lies madness, or at least frayed nerves and frustrated will.

My daughter recently took up Taekwondo. She is slight and her uniform ill-fitting: it seems to me that she swims in a sea of white. Within a few weeks of starting the lessons, she used the space around herself more confidently. She no longer curled up or made herself small. She seemed to unfurl her limbs and make bigger shapes in the air around her. As if her lack of confinement was newfound knowledge.

My sons have an innate confidence. It sits snugly against their skin, even the one year old. He tumbles off the bed, calling gleefully to his siblings, not content to stay still and quiet. His older brother, too, tears about the house, leaving rackets, balls and socks scattered in his wake. They won’t be shushed or sculpted.

I wonder whether despite feminism, despite our best efforts, we teach our girls to overthink, to analyse, to be aware of the impact of their every action and every thought. Whether from the womb our girls learn to court approval, to smile and be perfect, rather than to go forth and just be.

Recently, my old friend Doubt visited me after a long stretch in hibernation. After out last bout, he retreated, sulking, to the furthest corners of my subconscious. In my vanity, I thought I’d finally conquered him. I was wrong.

When he returns, he is stronger than ever. He often comes just before a leap in development, a black cloud before the sun breaks through. He is stubborn and it takes strength to commit words to the page when he whispers in my ear that they don’t measure up or deserve to find an audience.

How indulgent to confess my fears to loved ones, who listen with keen ears to worries they have heard a thousand times before. Perhaps Doubt grows stronger the more credence you give it. It’s safer to return to the trenches, to dig the words out, more and more, until he lays down his sword and withdraws, his tattered coat turned against the wind.

This is the key, I remind myself. Action breeds confidence, not floundering in darkness, waiting for him to leave. I take my notebook and make myself more vulnerable. I rip the words out from where they are buried, seeking authenticity rather than inspiration. Inspiration will come soon enough. Trust the process. Trust yourself.

I ask myself: what is it that you want? What is it that makes you want to write? Sometimes, learning who we are is a process that takes years, like a jigsaw with missing pieces. With every new experience, with every burst of growth, we need to turn the lens inwards to understand ourselves.

I know the virus is part of me now, that I burn if the words stay trapped, if I’m not faced with a smooth blank page, if I’m not creating and seeking to understand the world around me. It doesn’t matter that I hurt or I doubt. It doesn’t matter if I fly or drop like a stone. It doesn’t even matter if I fall short of expectations.

The people that love us best never expect anything from us.

All that matters is the boldness to move forward and honour our passions, to take our courage in our hands, even if it flaps like a trapped bird. Creating, in itself, is an act of hope in a world that often feels dark.

About the author:

Nillu Nasser is a writer of literary fiction novels including All the Tomorrows (2017). She has a BA in English and German Literature, and an MA in European Politics. After graduating she worked in national and regional politics, but eventually reverted to her first love: writing. She lives in London with her husband and three children. Her new novel, Hidden Colours, about a Syrian acrobat at an immigrant circus in Berlin, is available now.

Follow her on Twitter https://twitter.com/nillunasser

Find out more about her on her website https://nillunasser.com/

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Hidden Colours

Each evening, nestled in Berlin’s Treptower Park, the immigrant circus comes to life.

When Yusuf fled Syria, he lost everything. Now the circus, with its middle-eastern flair, is the only home he knows. When the lights go on, the refugees dazzle their audience, but off-stage tensions flare.

Ellie is passionate about the circus and drawn to its broken people. Even so, if she wants to keep her job at the newspaper, she must head up a campaign against it.

One night, in the midst of a show, two young circus boys come to blows. With the circus at risk of closure, Ellie must convince her readers that we can have compassion for those we fear, or Yusuf will be forced to uproot again.

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