In college, I started having clear goals—what I wanted to achieve by the time I graduated, how I wanted the semester to end, what grade I was to have each grading period, what opportunities I wanted to lock in, and what or who I wanted to be.
To my surprise, I often find myself achieving my goals. I sometimes miss the mark, but it wasn't too far off. It was then that I noticed that I was manifesting. I had repeatedly written things I wanted to achieve and have. My notebooks have pages with my goals written repeatedly on their pages. This then became a habit. I had a notebook I dedicated to my manifestations. I've written at the beginning of the year, at the start of the semester, and when an opportunity arrives. The longer I've been doing it, I've learned that the more specific I was, the better the result I got. No matter how big or small, if it was something I sincerely wanted to achieve or feel, I wrote it down over and over—repeatedly, line by line, pages and pages.
I carried this habit and eventually practiced writing my ten-year goals and yearly targets and what I needed to do to achieve them. I regularly go back to the pages, look at what's written, touch it, and feel it coming true. I return to the pages, ticking everything I accomplished and rethinking what didn't work out.
At some point, life as we know it caught up and started draining me. The pressure burdened me, and not achieving my targets made me anxious. I lost interest. Slowly, I stopped writing and eventually forgot about it. Whenever the chance to plan comes, I do it, but it never feels the same. It just felt like a task that needed to be done.
Then, I started writing small reminders I posted in my house and gave out to people.
In some ways, I felt I was healing. Hopefully, those who received notes from me also felt the same.
Then, I stopped again. I had nothing to write, and I couldn't write. I also mostly stopped writing daily tasks.
Writing felt heavy.
Last week, after being in a slump for weeks, I picked up the pen and tried to start writing again, just like I repeatedly wrote my goals and hopes. But rather than hopes, I ended up writing terrible thoughts—thoughts that had been eating me away as I reached my limit.
I stopped.
I decided to take a breather.
I am hoping to restart.
I tore and threw the pages I had written a week ago. I plan to start writing again—my hopes, motivations, and thoughts. Starting with this piece, I'll manifest again, dream, and reclaim my hopes.
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