10 Reasons Why I Don’t Want Kids

why I don't want kids

Pictures of babies usually makes people go “awwww!”

Presumably because it fills them with a warm and fuzzy giddiness.

The same kind I have instead associated with dogs and puppies (especially Bub).

As a kid, I didn’t want to play with dolls.

Why the hell would anyone want to play with a baby?!

As far as I could tell, babies only did three different things. They could cry, sleep and shit themselves.

Seriously, didn’t kids with siblings already have a real-life version of that?!

To this day, I completely fail to understand the appeal.

Myself? I had a giant suitcase of Barbies to play with instead.

Barbies were glamorous and grown-up, which I enjoyed envisioning myself as when I was a kid. I wanted to be a gorgeous girl like her, with lots of clothes and a killer pink limousine!

As a teenager, I was equally as uninterested in babysitting any of my younger cousins.

Well, fast-forward to being an adult, and not much has changed when it comes to my feelings about babies and kids.

I’ll be thirty years old in less than a year and I still don’t have any of my own (unless you’re enlightened enough to count Bub, which you should be).

On that note, let’s countdown the top ten reasons why I don’t want kids.

#10: No Interest Whatsoever

Similar to the subject of cooking, I just don’t have any interest in children or raising them.

Would it be cool to know how to make a recipe or two?

Maybe.

But not cool enough to make the process of learning them feel worth it to me.

#9: The Adoption Argument

You hear this one ALL the time in the context of animals and pets.

Why pay hundreds or thousands of dollars to buy a dog from a breeder, when so many rescue animals are sitting in shelters waiting to be adopted or put down?

Considering I’d do best with kids over the age of eight or nine, adoption makes more sense.

And no way will I be allowed to adopt a human child in this lifetime (thank the Gods)!

#8: Potential for Tragedy

Look, I don’t know about you, but…the thought of having a child who is diagnosed with cancer at the age of four years old doesn’t exactly sound like a scenario I could survive.

Know what I’m saying?

There are just too many ways for things to go horribly wrong, most of which are totally outside of our control.

#7: Leaving a Legacy

Children are often thought of as someone’s legacy.

Some living abstraction of that person and the new one they created, which will carry the parent’s genes into the future.

I guess that’s cool and all, but I can think of better things to leave behind.

I will become immortal through the words I write, the stories I send out into the world. I’ll be kept alive each time a stranger reads them for the first time.

You, on the other hand, will likely be forgotten by your own family after a generation or two.

#6: I Just DON’T Like Them

There are some things in life that I kind of just hate.

Country music, sports and kids, to name a few.

You might think that’s awful, but my idea of awful is seeing the exasperation of some poor woman on the bus who can’t seem to console her screaming toddler.

I’ve never envied one.

#5: Fucked Up Parents

Although I was fortunate enough to be raised by two wonderful grandparents, my biological parents happen to be two of the biggest pieces of human trash on the planet.

Suffice to say, I know firsthand how lovely life can be when both of the assholes who gave it to you are worthless, selfish, abusive breeds of scum.

Even worse is the inevitable realization that they probably only intended to cause a fraction of all the misery they are responsible for.

No. Thank. You.

#4: Disgusted by Pregnancy

Trust me when I say, it’s NOT just the thought of pregnancy that disgusts me.

With six abortions under my belt (pun intended), I think it’s safe to say that I’ve given the whole thing its due.

NOT willing to earn any new stretch marks or destroy my vagina for the sake of having kids, sorry.

#3: Worst Demographics EVER

I mean this in the most literal sense possible.

I am unemployed, uneducated, unstable.

Addicted to drugs.

Poor credit, no bank account, no savings. Not a fucking dollar to my name!

No career, no degree, no employment or rental history.

No fucks given about the future, frankly.

#2: Finding ‘Mr. Right’

How do I say this?

Guys who want to ‘start a family’ aren’t really my type.

I’m attracted to people more like myself, who live in a confusing chaos somewhere between adolesence and adulthood.

Some women don’t concern themselves much over who the father of their baby is, or whether he will be around to help raise them.

I am NOT one of those women.

#1: Lack of Consent

Most importantly, I do not want children because the world has mostly been a disappointment and I will not force someone into it without their permission.

The fact is, no one is asked if they want to be born.

I often envision being asked, then given a momentary glimpse of life before having to decide.

I would have taken a pass, personally.

16 Reasons Why Being a 90s Kid Was Awesome

Since I’m the only living 90s kid who doesn’t currently write shit for fucking Buzzfeed, I figured I had better make my own list of childhood nostalgia in their characteristically lazy and sparse style.

I feel like I should add a disclaimer making it clear that I am in no way certain of whether I actually thought growing up in the 90s was as spectacular as I make it sound, or if I just hate being an adult so much that it seems that way.

Hopefully that grain of salt is big enough to keep you from falling head first into this toilet of a list post.

Enjoy.

The Disney Renaissance

The greatest animated films ever made by Disney came out during my childhood.

Younger generations are lucky since they can appreciate them after the fact, but I lived through it, motherfucker.

Might not seem important to you, but like…I literally knew nothing else as a child.

I just grew up with the absolute best without even realizing how awesome it was.

Gel Pens

Hell yes.

You have absolutely NOT forgotten how important it was for you to have a brand new set of these before the school year started, am I right?

Lisa Fucking Frank

981583c6c7ba3a6e4a7e5d755e69c6d0You know exactly what I’m talking about.

You had the folders, the notebooks, the planners, the posters.

The whole shebang.

Enough said.

 The Pink Barbie Corvette

 

Cruising up and down your driveway until you had to recharge the batteries.

You were a pimp then, you’re a pimp now!

Barbies

 

Sure, technically barbies have been around a lot longer than since the 90s.

But we all know that it was the best decade for barbies, so don’t try to deny it.

Dunkaroos

 

These were sooo good and I have no idea why they stopped making them.

They were like little cookies you dipped into a perfect, gritty frosting.

Jelly Shoes

 

They broke all the time and they literally murdered your feet, but seriously?

They were sparkly and oh so awesome.

Fluffy Pens

 

Okay, so maybe Clueless was responsible for starting this whole thing.

In case you hadn’t noticed, pens were taken pretty seriously in the 90s.

And what better way to say serious than adding some pink fluff?

Polly Pocket

 

No one could compete with Barbie, but there was just something ridiculously delightful about the sheer tininess of Polly Pocket and her little collectible worlds.

Disney Everything

d2099352cbbf067a7b62b51ff8d26144I tried to tell you what a big deal this was!

We’re talking the lunchbox, the sheets and comforter with pillowcases, wall decals, birthday cakes, shoes, clothes, cups and dishes, backpacks, hair accessories and we’ve only scratched the surface.

Glitter

 

It was everywhere and in absolutely everything.

There isn’t a single 90s lip gloss or other cosmetic that does not contain absurd amounts of fucking glitter.

What can I say, it was a motherfuckin’ sparkly decade.

Squeeze Its

 

These need no introduction.

Why oh why did they even stop making these fucking things?

The Kool-Aid knockoffs just don’t cut it.

Being a Campfire Girl

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Screw the Girl Scouts. I was a Campfire Girl, bitches!

It was co-ed and way cooler.

I had a vest with all the damn badges, I think it’s still somewhere in my boxes at my parent’s house.

But for the most part, all I remember is meeting once a week after school at our leader’s house and doing fun stuff.

Bunk Beds With a Slide

 

Mine looked cooler and not as boring.

The slide was bright red and seemed bigger than this one looks in the photo.

Anyhow, it was awesome and I miss sliding down it in the morning back when I used to actually get out of bed each day.

Free AOL Discs

AHE3H8 A collection of AOL cd roms

 

This one will be lost on anyone younger than me, but back in the day we did not have smartphones with unlimited data plans.

In fact, we didn’t even have any kind of data plan on our old ass flip cell phones with the antennas you still had to pull out to get reception.

Hence, the AOL free trial discs were actually pretty handy.

They weren’t kidding about 1000+ hours free either. Every time my mom used to call to cancel the trial before they started billing us, they just extended the free trial another month or longer.

They obviously didn’t give two fucks.

This was back in the dark ages of dial-up internet, but with one of these silly discs you could literally pop it into any PC and setup a new trial account and get online in a few minutes (if you were willing to tie up your landline, that is).

So it’s probably good that they were literally fucking EVERYWHERE.

They handed these things out like they were napkins or something. They basically put little containers of them on the counter at like every business ever and invited you to just take them, so there was no shortage when you needed one.

The Motherfuckin’ Spice Girls

 

Boy bands are for pussies and queers.

Two words for you fags: GIRL POWER!

Embarrassing fact: SpiceWorld is the only VHS tape I ever watched enough times to warp and I had to buy a new copy to replace my first one.

My Near Santa Claus Experience

 

Hopefully my fuzzy memory doesn’t disappoint the reader too terribly, but I’ll just come out and admit that I don’t recall many sensory details that go back as far as this particular Christmas story happens to.

Now, that’s not to say I missed out on the universally appreciated experiences that we learn to recognize as gifts from Winter.

Some of them remain more deeply etched across my mind than others, like the satisfyingly loud crunching sound of your boots as they stomp the freshly fallen orange and yellow leaves lining the streets.

The sound of my grandfather nailing the Christmas lights up outside my window.

The Surrealism of Snow

Or the first morning you wake up to the total transformation of your familiar surroundings by something as simple as snow.

I do remember those innocent couple of moments washing over me as I stood looking out at my driveway, the fence posts and the cars all covered in a snowy flawlessness.

When you are that young, you can’t really ever prepare yourself for that possibility before routinely glancing out the window.

Even if every adult in the house was warning you that it could get cold enough while you were sleeping that night, as they tucked you into bed.

Maybe at that age, you haven’t seen enough years yet to anticipate things like snow.

Not to mention, you haven’t had a chance to look out any other window as often as the one in your bedroom at that point either.

Counting Down the Days

I suppose I must have been about 7 years old for this particular Christmas, which means that I was in the first grade.

My teacher that year was named Mrs. Stiger and I remember liking her more than I’d thought I would on the first day of school.

She was a little different than my Kindergarten teacher was.

Her name had been Miss Cindy, and she possessed that unmistakable glow that’s shared by all women who teach children of that age.

But first grade wasn’t like Kindergarten at all, I remember that rather well. Instead of naps, snack time and doodling in our journals, we were learning how to read and do basic arithmetic.

These more serious intellectual pursuits were naturally delivered by a more serious type of teacher, and Mrs. Stiger was exactly that.

Miss Cindy had felt more like a friend or a babysitter, which isn’t too far off when I think about it.

She played with us and praised us for our scribble drawings, always wearing an expression that started as a smile and never morphed into much else.

Though despite being far more strict and having a lower tolerance for nonsense, Mrs. Stiger proved far more memorable, even now as I struggle to revisit my year spent with each of them.

I remember that on the very first day of December, Mrs. Stiger announced that we would be doing a very neat arts and crafts project.

We were going to create a Christmas chain, using red and green construction paper and glue sticks.

I didn’t know what a Christmas chain was, but I knew anything including the word ‘Christmas’ had to be worth getting excited about.

Next, she demonstrated how they were constructed as she explained what their purpose was.

She told us that we needed to cut and glue together exactly 24 construction paper rings, and each one represented a day of the month. The twenty-fourth ring was made using a different color of paper, to indicate Christmas Eve was upon us.

This was sounding more and more exciting to me, and I wanted her to stop talking so I could get my hands on some paper and scissors sooner.

But there was one more part of the story, she quickly added.

After we made our chains, we could take them home with us and show our parents so they could hang them up in the house.

Each day when we arrived home from school, she urged us to remind mom and dad that it was time to tear off another one of the rings, since Christmas was one day closer!

We got to remove a ring from the chain at the end of each day in December, and when there was no more rings left to remove, that meant Christmas was finally here.

Sitting there at my table with the three or four other kids in my group as we started slicing away madly with our round-edged scissors and pressing our glue sticks into the strips of paper much harder than was necessary, it felt like a little vacation back to the world we had known the year before that, when we were still in Kindergarten.

It was nice and it felt familiar in a comforting way.

We had tons of fun making those silly little things, but when we were finished, it was back to struggling through the pronunciation of those very first books we had ever read, each of them heavily illustrated and having no more than a few words printed on each page.

When I eagerly showed my mother my Christmas creation, she was overjoyed and it felt like an early celebration that day when we cut our first ring off the very long chain of alternating red and green construction paper.

I wished we didn’t have to wait a whole day before we could cut off the next one, but there was no way to speed up the passing of that very long month.

Even my tremendous excitement could not hurry it along; it mounted with the passing of each day and the removal of each paper ring.

Proof That Santa Claus Does Exist

Every year before that one since I could remember, my mother and I had baked a fresh batch of Christmas cookies the night before Santa Claus came to deliver my presents under the giant, heavily decorated tree that stood in our big living room.

While I mostly helped her with things like licking the cookie dough bowl clean after she stuck the loaded cookie sheet in the oven, it felt like I was still part of the whole process just by being in the kitchen, standing on my little stool to reach the counter better.

Watching her as she added the vanilla extract, cracked the eggs open and started mixing everything together to end up with the yummiest dough I’d ever tasted, a warmness traveled through me and made me feel like I was in on some important secret each Christmas Eve.

It was too bad that we weren’t allowed to see Santa Claus when he came to bring the presents, since he would only come once you were fast asleep and only if you had been good all that year too.

I knew he must be real though, even if I had never actually seen him.

I knew he was real because that plate of beautiful cookies and that tall glass full of milk that we left sitting out by the tree before going to bed was always empty the next morning when we all woke up and rejoined in the living room.

Yep, that’s right. He only ever left some crumbs.

I remember one year I insisted that my mother and I leave a big carrot too, for the reindeer. So we did just that. And it was gone in the morning as well.

It must have been that year, or the one before it, that my mother had taken me to the shopping mall sometime during December.

While we were there, I saw a man dressed up like Santa who looked just like him.

There was a line of other little kids waiting to sit on his lap, so they could tell him what they wanted him to leave under their trees that year.

Someone was taking a picture of each kid while they sat on his lap and whispered in his ear.

I asked my mother if it was really Santa Claus, because I didn’t think he would just come out to the store and do that.

She explained to me that it wasn’t actually the real Santa Claus, of course.

She said it was just a nice man who dressed up just like him, so the kids could have their picture taken with him.

She shrugged it off as being perfectly understandable, considering that it was impossible to get a picture with the real guy, after all.

That made sense to me.

Writing My Christmas List for Santa

I had only one important thing left to do in preparation for Christmas that year.

I still needed to be sure that I wrote my Christmas list, so I could mail it to the North Pole in time to ensure that Santa knew what presents to bring me that year.

I asked my mother how it could get all the way there to the North Pole?

She said he didn’t need to use a mailbox, like we did for other kinds of mail.

She explained that if I simply left my list near the Christmas tree, that one of his elves would sneak in and pick it up for him.

She said that’s how it has always worked.

The elves are sent out to pick up the Christmas gift lists from all the children, so they can return to the North Pole and deliver them to Santa Claus in time to make all the presents we wanted.

I was shocked and couldn’t believe how neat that was.

I wrote my list as quickly as I could jot it down, then loudly announced that I was about to put it by the tree for the elves to come pick up.

I ran into the living room, set it down frantically right next to the tree and immediately asked my mom when the elf would show up.

She laughed at the question, reminding me that we weren’t allowed to see the elves.

They were magical, didn’t I remember?

They would wait until you weren’t looking, just like Santa does on Christmas.

Hearing that, I began racing out of the living room and ran outside to the front porch, where my father was cutting wood for the fireplace.

I breathlessly relayed all the information shared with me but a moment ago by my mother, and then bolted back into the living room before I had even finished explaining it all.

I wanted to see if he had taken it yet. I must have been out of the room for less than two or three minutes.

When I walked up to the tree, the paper with my gift list written on it was gone. I couldn’t believe that.

How did he get there so fast, I just left for a second?!

The first thing I wanted to do was go tell my mom and everyone else I knew.

I ran into the kitchen and excitedly told my mother that she was right, and he had already been here and taken my list!

She smiled and reassured me that she knew what she was talking about the whole time.

This was so amazing that I didn’t want to stop there.

I had never come this close to being in the same room with a magical elf!

Maybe if I was really fast, I would catch him turning a corner really quick or something. Just maybe.

When Santa came with presents, we had to be asleep all night long so he could finish visiting all the houses in the world.

The elves must have been so much faster, since there was lots of them! It felt much closer to something I’d actually seen.

I wanted to do it again immediately.

Writing Another List for Santa

I yelled to my mother that I forgot something on my list, and began to scribble something, anything, on another scrap of paper that meant nothing at all to me.

Again, I raced into the living room and put it in the same place, so he could find it easily.

I ran out for what couldn’t have been longer than a minute or two, then came sprinting back in to find another missing piece of paper that the elf had undeniably just snatched up a second time on his way back to the North Pole.

He was probably already back there making my toys, I thought.

That second time was even more amazing, felt even closer to real magic that I had somehow been witness to.

Shortly after this, my uncle showed up at the house to borrow something my aunt needed.

I was overjoyed to have another person who I could share this unbelievable story with, and before he had a chance to speak a word to my mother, I blurted out the entire thing to him.

I shared the secret with him, that an elf had been to my house to take my list to Santa.

Not once, but two times!

Yeah, he came twice and took both of my lists off the table next to the tree, I swore to god it was true.

I spent the entire rest of that afternoon leaving Santa’s elves notes by the tree.

Each time they disappeared in another couple blinks of my eyes, I became all the more delighted and magical things seemed all the more real and certainly possible, at the least.

My Poor Mother

About a year later, all the other kids at school began to figure out that there was, in fact, no Santa Claus.

That meant there was no elves either.

I remember being disappointed when I confirmed those things, but it wasn’t until many years later that I realized how busy I had kept my mother that whole afternoon.

Only then did it also dawn on me how amazingly wonderful it was of her to do that for me, all those times.

Why Spoiling Children Hurts Them as Adults

As a child, I was never denied a single thing I ever wanted.

I was raised by my maternal grandparents, who I love more than life itself. They have been married for fifty-two years, amazingly.

When I say I was never denied anything, I mean it quite literally.

I asked my grandfather for a pony, I got a horse.

I asked for a swing set, he had a full crew come in and build me a playground.

spoiling children
After some research, it appears to have been Rainbow Play Systems, Inc.

I wanted one of those pink battery-powered Barbie corvettes, he got me one and I drove it up and down our driveway to my heart’s content.

Since my grandparents (who I call “mom” and “dad” and consider my parents) had already raised four girls of their own, I did have to wait until I was twelve to finally visit Disneyland.

But that’s about as tragic as my life was up to that point in time.

A Rude Awakening

Then, shortly before turning thirteen, I was forced to move in with my biological mother, her husband and my younger sister who I barely knew.

Life was about to change drastically overnight.

Unlike the houses I lived in with my grandparents, my mother lived in a tiny two bedroom apartment.

Google Street View of Red Sunset Apartments, where I lived with my mother

I didn’t have two bedrooms to choose from here.

The only option was to share the second bedroom with my little sister, which meant sleeping on the bottom of her bunk beds.

And these were not bunk beds like the ones I had back at home. These ones didn’t have a big, red slide going from the top bunk down to the floor.

They were cheap and wobbly and they sucked.

My mother didn’t have money for anything nice.

We argued over things as ridiculous as how fast we went through common household products like toilet paper, that’s how badly she struggled to provide for my sister and me.

And while I hated life at the time and was pretty miserable trying to adjust to these huge changes, it was the best thing that could have happened to me in the long run.

What Spoiled Rotten Looks Like

My grandfather has always done everything for his children and grandchildren and I can understand the natural desire to provide for your family and all of that.

And while three of his four daughters turned out just fine, my mother was the bad apple.

And when I say bad, I mean rotten to the core.

During the forty-three years since she was born, my grandfather has tried giving her just about everything a person could claim to want.

About a year after I moved in with her, he ended up buying her a house for us to live in.

She convinced my mentally-ill stepfather to burn it down so they could collect the insurance money. Which they did.

For drug money.

To show her gratitude for all my grandparents have done to try and help her, she has stolen my grandmother’s jewelry and sold it to buy heroin.

She has lied and stolen from them more times than I can count, blaming all her personal shortcomings on the fact that she’s a drug addict.

He gave her cars, money, places to live, paid for her rehab at countless facilities, bought her groceries, took her clothes shopping…and these things ruined her as an adult.

She can’t even fucking function.

Refusing to Learn From Past Mistakes

Now I’m watching him repeat this mistake with my younger sister, who has a two year old son and is a single parent who doesn’t work or do much of anything.

The reason she doesn’t work or support her own child is because she has never needed to.

People don’t do things unless they need to.

How many people do you think enjoy working so much that they would keep doing it after winning the lottery (and with the same urgency)?

The problem is, you can’t appreciate the things someone does for you once you come to expect them or, even worse, feel entitled to them.

You simply forget or don’t know what it is like to live without someone just handing you everything.

Struggle is something you cannot comprehend.

This is a huge problem because it disconnects you from reality.

Examining Parental Influences

In trying to understand my grandfather and why he fails to see the error in his thinking, I look at his own upbringing and it helps to clarify somewhat.

My great-grandmother was only sixteen when he was born in 1942.

He grew up without ever knowing his father and his mother struggled to support him and his younger sister by working her ass off as both a waitress and a housekeeper at several hotels.

She worked hard to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads.

Needless to say, I’m sure there were many things my grandfather went without during his childhood and adolescence.

But has he forgotten how this very fact was his inspiration for working hard to create a better life for himself as an adult?

Does he not see that the motivation for building his business and becoming successful is rooted in his early life and his firsthand knowledge of what it meant to want something you can’t afford to have?

My grandfather has always been driven and he likes to have nice things.

He and my grandmother have always prided themselves on living in beautiful homes, and being able to give their children the things they want.

And I don’t fault them for that.

Money is No Match for Love

But giving someone everything they want is toxic and it’s too bad that my grandfather doesn’t stop to consider the fact that he never loved his mother any less because she was poor.

He never held it against her that she couldn’t afford to pay his tuition so he could attend a private, Catholic high school. Instead, he got an after school job and worked to pay it himself.

And he loved his mother dearly.

They used to call each other every single evening before she passed away in 2006.

I hope he knows that his own children wouldn’t love him any less if he expected them to work hard and act like adults too.

There is a reason we stop letting kids shit themselves and wear diapers after a certain age.

Otherwise parents would still be wiping their asses for them as adults, which isn’t appropriate at all.

Don’t Be Afraid to Become Who You Were Meant to Be

I’ve faced a lot of criticism in my life so far. Probably more than most people who live in my part of the world. Since as far back as I can remember, my family has basically disagreed with everything I think, say and choose to do. When I was younger, this was very frustrating.

Perhaps it had something to do with the generation gap between myself and the grandparents who raised me. Whatever the reason, I have had to live with disapproval from my entire family since I was young enough that it still made me feel pretty bad.

Drawing From Personal Experiences

If you face any kind of adversity in life from those close to you, I can’t blame you for being scared. But you shouldn’t let it stop you.

I remember in the seventh grade, we were matched up with another student and our assignment was to pick an issue to debate, whether political or social. I ended up with another girl in the class named Bianca and our issue was abortion. We were on totally opposite sides of the matter as well, I might add.

While she argued that it was morally wrong and should be illegal, I stood my ground and believed it was a woman’s body so it was still her own choice what she did with it. I know where this position originated in myself too, which was equally as important.

For as long as I could remember, I had always thought that my mother should not have had children if she was just going to abandon them and didn’t really want to bother with them. People are a big deal. They matter. It seemed to me that you should not just go around carelessly breeding when you had no intention of being a responsible parent.

In my mind at that time (and still now, to an extent) abortion seemed like the more humane thing to do than bringing someone into the world who was unwanted. Why doom someone to live their life knowing that those responsible for them had no desire to know them or care for them?

You Will Know It When You Feel It

Backing up even further, I also have a very vivid memory of watching a soap opera with my live-in nanny at around the age of seven or so. I remember that one of the female characters was pregnant and she was injured somehow, I don’t remember the details.

At some point, there was a scene where one of the male characters either had to save the life of this unborn baby by doing something, or he had to instead save the life of one of the other adult female characters in the show. I remember asking Melanie (my nanny) about it and she asked me something that really made me think, even at such a young age. 

She asked, “Who do you think he should save?”

And I answered with the name of the adult female, then followed it up with something about how the other lady could always get pregnant again and have another baby, but they couldn’t replace the other character. She already had a name and they knew who she was. That seemed more important to me.

It still does. 

You Don’t Always Grow Out Of It

I think I had a misconception that perhaps my family would better understand me as an adult. That’s hardly been the case, however. My grandparents in particular disapprove of my choice to work as an escort.

While I don’t need them to agree with how I choose to live my life, I feel like they are missing out in many ways by judging and discouraging me. Sometimes, you have to let go of people who are supposed to be important and close to you because quite frankly, they give you no other choice.

Yes, it’s kind of sad. Yes, it’s also unfortunate. 

But there is something worse that it can turn out to be if you let it.

It might be the reason you never become who you were meant to be. Personally, I have learned to thrive off of the disapproval of others, rather than let it slow me down. The more they shake their heads at me, the stronger I stand my ground. It’s become easier over the years, but it takes practice.

The Courage to Stand Alone

And I mean all alone. If you were in a room full of people who would think badly of you if you told them who you were and what you did, would you have the courage to stand up and tell them? Could you handle standing there completely alone like some sponge for their negative reactions?

No one likes to be the only one in a group of people that doesn’t fit in at all. But it’s an important skill to have and you need to be able to do it when necessary. It’s not easy. It’s pretty fucking difficult. You need to have the balls to do this. Without it, you’ll never get very far.

Most people would like to think that if a group of people was picking on someone and had singled them out, they would intervene to help the victim…right? But ask yourself honestly if you would have the courage required to do something like that?

Remember that it would be you and the victim up against a large group of people who want to attack you, either verbally or physically. You’d be scared. But you’d know it was the right thing to do. 

Just like you need to stand up for what is right to help others, you need to do it to help yourself. 

Split Personalities Are Not The Way To Go

While some people seem to have no problem living double lives, it’s not really something I can make myself do. When I first set out to market myself online as a freelance writer, I faced a unique challenge.

I could write well, but obviously my clients came from several different industries and so they required writing that catered to an equally as wide range of topics, most of which I knew little or nothing about.

Okay, so what’s the big deal? Nothing, I guess. I just did the necessary research or they gave me something similar to what they were looking for to model the writing after, which worked well enough. 

Doesn’t this work just fine? Sure. But it’s not how you take things to the next level. It’s not how you infuse your writing with passion and true firsthand experience. 

As it turns out, there is something to be said for specializing. Not only can you demand higher rates for your work, but you become an authority in whatever niche it is you know most intimately.

Speaking of intimate niches, mine has turned out to be pretty easy to guess. Since most of my experience comes from working as an escort, I have a unique perspective on adult topics of all kinds.

For the longest time, I was pretty much convinced that since it doesn’t totally fit into any existing niches (like porn, for example) that are 100% legal, I was probably out of luck when it came to finding writing opportunities where this knowledge would be useful. 

So what did I do? I tried to create two separate identities. One as a writer. The other as an escort.

Big mistake. Not the right way to become who you were meant to be.

Keep Looking Until You Find It

daveyduke_0829v201As it turns out, there are opportunities to use both my writing skills and escorting experience all in one place. A while back, I started writing regularly for dating.com about many different topics related to escorting. Not only did I approach them with confidence, but I knew I had the right knowledge and the right words to write for their site.

I actually discovered it by pure accident, in fact. Like it was just meant to be. 

Now I’m getting offers to write for other sites in the same niche. Ones I didn’t even know about. Maybe there are more out there than I had previously thought. At the end of the day, my advice is to keep looking until you find the right opportunities for the person you really are.

Not who you are trying to be. Not who others want you to be. 

Instead of all that bull shit, become who you were meant to be. Be fearless. Don’t wait around for things to work out, find a way to make them work on your own terms.