Consistency feels like an illusion.
Like time, for me, it feels subjective.
Every moment of failure feels eternal.
The rays of success constantly dimmed by the night.
Making it all feel bleak.
Consistency in a short-lived world seems irrational.
Like my thoughts at times.
Thinking viral is instantaneous.
Brewing is a resentment for it. But only it’s fear.
Fear that showing up still won’t be good enough.
Fear that they won’t see me. Fear the hard work will mean nothing.
This fear is double-edged. Like a sword named anxiety.
Will they judge me? All the while I judge myself.
Feeling like dropping the mask will cause a shatter.
In my ego? My pride? My talent?
At the end of consistency road are my dreams, right?
A powerful dreamer indeed. Breathing life into a reality shaped in my head.
Like a dragon. Though the road is more like a phoenix.
Each failing moment is a burned death. To birth a fiery chance to start again.
Getting to sing the song of consistency that haunted my impassioned soul.
I wrote that poem to describe what it has been like trying to remain consistent in an era seemingly so quick to hop from trend to trend, platform to platform.
I cried a little because the journey of being consistent is tough. Especially when it comes to the things you really want to do, at least for me, it seems as if I’m afraid of what’s to come from showing up for things I say I’m passionate about.
Growing up, being consistent only mattered in my academic and professional life. I was never really told to go after my dreams. My parents discouraged it actually.
I was trapped inside a cage of growing up too fast while perfectionism haunted me in my dad’s lectures and critiques. I had to consistently show how smart I was.
But never how creative. Or talented. Or broken.
In a Black household like mine, everything is based on security. Doing things outside of the “norm” felt like an embarrassing thing.
My parents, specifically my dad, barely showed up for me unless it was giving me money for my consistent straight As. Or to consistently chastise me as if he or my mom never once were in my shoes.
I learned that consistency only matters when the result would be a form of security despite the ongoing push and pull of breaking out of the perpetuating “mold” I see in my family.
I also learned that being consistent worked for me when I had something to prove. Getting my degrees, and becoming a journalist because it was something people told me I couldn’t do or it wasn’t a “real” job.
If anything, I’ve learned that consistency is more like Grimm Reaper. Tall and dark with no words spoken, looming around every corner as if to judge every person when their time is called.
I think my parent showed me how they consistently didn’t believe in me and in turn, I can barely show up for myself outside of the workplace.
None of my family really saw the vision, ya know!? I felt out of place so much as I grew into an adult. And still do.
It causes a lot of confusion as I battle the echoes of childhood. I question how my dad could say things like “We didn’t think you’d go this far.”
His voice rang in my ears, “You won’t find a job,” “Journalism is a side hustle.” A form of “tough love” that only fueled me because of the gasoline I call passion.
I had to prove my worthiness like a knight whose mission is to save the kingdom from itself.
Telling me I “couldn’t” meant I had to. I had to dig deep and consistently prove to my parents that I was worth something despite the lack of respect for how I got there and the career I chose.
My relationship with my parents created this negative association with being consistent.
As if success or money had to always be the outcome. As if it just wasn’t enough that I was just good at something or just wanted to show up for that creative, expressive side of myself.
There was so much shame.
Still, it grips my shoulders, digging its distressed talons into my body to make me a living perch.
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