Fears are denying me a state of complacency. Uncertainties are doing the sidestep shuffle, curtly pushing safety out of line. Self-doubt still hasn’t evaporated, despite me putting it on the simmer setting on the back burner years ago.

These confrontational roommates have been companions for a long time, They stay with me, reminding me that I am still very much alive, still reaching, still risking. And perhaps that is the quiet rebellion at the heart of my life: choosing Chaos, kindly declining Comfort. Conflicting multiple-choice questions. Selecting the discombobulating seismic wave over the cushy cushion by the warm hearth, the sharp raw edge over the cautious padded corner, the unknown over the familiar.

This impulse to create, construct, produce doesn’t come from some lofty pursuit of fulfillment; it rises from a relentless itch under my skin, a consistent tug in my chest, an excess of interruptive questions that refuse to wait their turn. It comes from that primitive need to share an experience, a memory, a thought, a concern, a query, a thread of truth that might land in someone else’s hands and mean something. However temporary.

This impulse to create, is not a plea for affirmation. It is not a search for applause, compliments, approval, praise or permission. It is the act of listening inward and speaking outward, without ornament, without trend, without the protection of fashionable language. It is my recognition that every person carries a life full of flavours, stories, mistakes, joys, losses, flashes of brilliance, and mundane, ordinary moments that shape and polish us more than we admit.

All of it is valid. All of it is worth saying out loud.

And yes, self-doubt continues to walk beside me. It pricks my skin, quickens my breath, whispers its warnings. It sharpens me. It dares me to stride further, gaze closer, chase vertigo beyond the precipice, speak brighter. It reminds me to meet life – its sweetness, its turmoil, its ache – without flinching.

Choosing to tap into Chaos over Comfort is what keeps this voice alive. It is what keeps this heart from hardening. It is what keeps this pen moving. Messy, unorderly, irregular.  Facing the four-letter word called Life hauling a bucket in which to gather the gumption I collect along the way.

Photos and words : Joëlle Rabu 11.25.2025