A Letter to the Man I’m Becoming

Dear Future Self,

Right now, I find myself standing at the edge of a new chapter. People keep asking how I feel about what’s ahead, and truthfully, it’s been hard to answer. On one hand, I’m excited. I feel ready. But on the other hand, I’m afraid.

And if you asked me why I’m afraid, I might tell you it’s because I don’t know what’s coming next. But deep down, I know that’s not the real reason. The truth is, it’s not the uncertainty of the future that scares me. It’s the weight of the past I’m still holding on to.

I’ve carried this baggage for so long that it’s become part of me. In some ways, it’s been a shield, something I’ve used for protection and comfort. But I’ve come to realize that what once served me no longer fits who I’m becoming. So I’m choosing to sit with that fear, to be honest about it. Not run from it. Because I know that in order to move forward, I have to let go. I owe it to the person I’m becoming, to the man who will one day look back on this moment and see how all the pieces came together. How the pain and the growth led him here.

This is my step toward honoring the future version of me. And it starts with this truth:

I’m still not enough for myself.

There’s no one left to blame. No one to displace the responsibility onto. The weight of changing this, of becoming who I want to be, falls entirely on me. And honestly, I’m exhausted. I can’t pretend anymore. I’m tired of feeling this way.

I’ve been sitting with this feeling since graduation, but the truth is, it’s been lingering for much longer.

The PhD program became a distraction, a safety net that kept me from confronting this reality. Academia gave me the illusion of forward motion, of doing something meaningful, even when deep down I felt lost. Before the PhD, I was jobless, holding two degrees and no clear pathway to where I wanted to go. I was interning at a community radio station, living at home, and constantly drowning in questions from family and friends about my future. Everyone wanted to help, but their suggestions and approach to helping never aligned with the vision I had for myself or what I needed. It only made me feel even worse about where I was at and like I wasn’t enough. I was mentally drained, depressed, and desperate to get people off my back, to feel like I had some type of momentum, like I was doing something with my life.

So I applied to a PhD program. It felt like the perfect smoke and mirrors. I had the privilege of stepping into something that looked prestigious on the outside, a mark of intelligence and achievement in the eyes of others. But for me, it was survival. A temporary breath. A way to access resources and build the life I actually wanted. Not the academic one, but the creative one. I treated academia like my part-time, and my creative pursuits as my real work.

A lot of people expect that earning a PhD brings a deep sense of accomplishment and pride. That I must feel fulfilled. Like I’ve reached the peak. But since graduating, I don’t feel proud. I don’t feel successful. I feel behind. Like I still haven’t arrived at the life I’ve been working toward. Like I haven’t proven anything to myself other than prove I can exist on other people’s terms and expectations. I’m not where I want to be. And even now, after climbing the academic mountain and reaching the top, I still feel like I’m standing at the base of the one that actually matters to me.

Don’t get me wrong. By the end of this academic journey, I did find meaning. I found a research topic I genuinely love, people who’ve shaped my life, and an expertise in a space that’s been missing voices like mine. I won’t deny that this journey was necessary. I know it will open doors I can’t yet see. And you might even smile reading this, knowing how many unexpected things have already happened because of the degree. Right now, this degree feels more like a safety net. If what I really want doesn’t pan out, I know I have a strong Plan B to fall back on.

But here’s the thing:

I don’t want a Plan B.

I want Plan A to work.

And what is Plan A?

Lately, since finishing school, I’ve felt caught between a rock and a hard place, constantly asking myself: What do I actually want out of this life? What’s going to make me feel proud, fulfilled, whole? What’s missing?

And maybe more importantly: Do I have the courage to chase it? Or am I going to let life pass me by again?

I’ve spent a lot of my life checking every box expected of me, often going above and beyond. On paper, it might look like I followed the main path. But truthfully, it’s felt more like I’ve been moving through a series of side quests. Pursuing things that sounded impressive, looked good to others, and gave the people I love a sense of pride or security that I was doing something with my life.

All the while, I was hoping they’d see the bigger picture I’ve been quietly building. A vision that’s often been dismissed or misunderstood by those closest to me because it didn’t fit their version of success. So they projected their limitations onto me in ways that only affirmed my own fears. Because it didn’t come with a traditional path. Because it didn’t make money right away. Because it takes time.

But I’ve never chased success just for success’s sake.

I’m building a life with meaning. A life grounded in purpose, in craft, and in legacy. A life shaped by the people who raised me. The men who taught me how to lead, provide, protect, and show up with strength and love. And the women who taught me how to feel, how to listen, how to move through the world with empathy, compassion, and resilience.

That’s the kind of man I strive to be.

A man who can stand on his own and be someone others can lean on. A man who supports his woman emotionally, physically, spiritually, romantically, and financially. A man who gives his future children the freedom to dream and the roots to grow in love, safety, and security.

A man who shows up. Not just for his family but for his village and community. Someone who creates joy, safety, and lasting, meaningful moments for the people around him.

A man with morals. With integrity. With boundaries. A man you can trust whether you’re in the room or not. A man who keeps showing up. Who keeps growing. Who keeps raising the bar. Not for applause but out of principle.

A man who makes people feel safe, seen, and inspired to become better versions of themselves. Who is assertive but soft. Transparent yet still a little mysterious. Aware yet always learning. Intentional. Present. Someone who takes up space but never needs to be the loudest in the room. Thoughtful. Honest. Romantic. Consistent. Willing.

That kind of responsibility isn’t a burden to me. It’s a privilege. An honor.

I’m not chasing stability for the image. I want peace. I want security. I want to be undeniable. Not to impress but so I can move through life knowing I’ve shown up fully and faithfully and never have to feel ashamed for what I couldn't provide to the people I love.

I don’t want to just leave an impression.

I want to leave an impact. One that lasts.

But now I have to ask myself with complete honesty:

What will finally feel like enough?

When will I truly know that I’ve arrived not just on paper but in my soul?

When will I give myself permission to stop building and start truly living?

The truth is, I’ve spent the majority of my adult life saying no to life. I convinced myself I was focused, locked in, grinding. I told myself I didn’t have the time, money, or space to do the things I secretly wanted. But the real reason was fear. I was protecting myself. Hiding.

More than anything, I felt unseen, unheard, and not valued by the people around me. When I shared my dreams — fragile and deeply personal — and they didn’t receive them with the care or belief I hoped for, it only reinforced that feeling of being invisible. When I tried to let people in, to be my true self, and they left me or turned away, I took it deeply personal. It felt like proof that I wasn’t enough, that who I was wasn’t enough. I started to question myself. I started doubting who I could be, what I could do, and who would even want to be with me.

No one could trust the dream I had for my life, so I could never become the person I wanted to be. I was better off following the path others expected of me, hiding who I was and wanted to become from the world. I was better off lonely and alone because no one could love the real me — the side of me I kept hidden because I believed it was too broken, too much, or simply not enough. They never really saw that side of me. And when they did, they didn’t believe in me. They abandoned me or forgot me when I thought we were closer than that. That loneliness cut deep. It wasn’t just about being alone — it was feeling invisible and unwanted at the core of who I am. I talked myself out of trusting or believing in myself. That belief did not come from nowhere. It was carved into me by repeated experiences that seemed to prove it true. So anything unfamiliar, inconvenient, or outside my comfort zone felt dangerous. Unsafe. Like a guaranteed moment when I’d be exposed as not good enough or too much.

So I played it safe. I talked myself out of knowing what I really wanted. I denied myself experiences. I kept people at arm’s length. Travel, friendship, love, adventure, connection. I told myself I didn’t need those things. But the truth is, I wanted them. I used discipline, independence, being a homebody, and even isolation disguised as a need for solitude as a mask for fear.

I avoided dating as much as I could. And even when I gave myself space to try, I would quickly convince myself I wasn’t worthy and that they deserved better than me. That I was either too much or not enough. I wasn’t worth the effort. If I got close to someone and it didn’t work out, I used it as proof that I shouldn’t have tried in the first place. Or I took complete responsibility for things going wrong, as if I’m always the one to blame and there’s something inherently wrong with me. Proof that I shouldn’t be with anyone — that I didn’t need to be with anyone or be in anyone’s way.

I pushed away people who tried to get close. Turned down people I liked. I denied my feelings toward someone by waiting too long to make a move because I was afraid of starting something I couldn’t sustain or of leading someone on when I wasn’t sure I could give them my full self. I told people I wasn’t looking and wasn’t open to building something real, even when I was quietly curious about someone. I found myself drawn to people who were far away or out of reach because the distance made it safe — it meant I didn’t have to face the hard work of commitment or the risk of getting too close.

In so many ways, I was avoiding connection. I was self-sabotaging before anything even had a chance to grow. I wasn’t giving myself the space or permission to try, even though deep down I really wanted to. I was caught between wanting to be seen and loved and being terrified of what would happen if I was.

I told people that I wasn’t worth the effort, or that I didn’t have time. I said I was too busy. I said I was focused on my healing journey. I said I was waiting until I could be somewhere else or a lot more established. But the truth? I was scared.

Scared to be seen.
Scared to be rejected.
Scared to be not enough.
Scared to be too much.

Over time, I lost the parts of myself that once loved being present. The parts that loved being outside. Trying new things. Being spontaneous. Having fun. I buried my curiosity unless it had something to do with creating. I traded adventure for ambition. I called isolation maturity. But in reality, I was self-sabotaging. Again and again.

When I liked someone, I’d shut down. When friends invited me to travel, I said no. When someone tried to introduce me to someone new or offer me new experiences, I’d retreat or make it difficult to get me out of my room. I walked away from relationships and friendships before anyone else had the chance to walk away from me. I expected people to leave, so I created the distance to make it easier when they did. And sometimes, they did. And I’d convince myself I didn’t care.

I told myself friendships were seasonal, so I never fully let people in. I kept them close enough to serve a purpose, but far enough that their absence wouldn’t hurt. I became who others needed me to be and disconnected from what I needed for myself. I built community and held space for others because I understood the pain of loneliness so deeply — but I never allowed myself to feel safe or fully present in what I helped build. I turned into the low-maintenance friend who never asked for much and expected even less in return. And when people tried to rise to the occasion — when they wanted to show up for me — and I didn’t reciprocate in the way they hoped, I’d get upset. Not because they were wrong, but because deep down, I no longer knew how to receive love.

I rejected myself before anyone else could. I let every sting of rejection harden me a little more. I convinced myself that being single was safer, even though deep down I wanted more. And now I’m at a point where even the possibility of connection feels uncomfortable. A friend recently showed me a picture of someone they thought I might like — just a picture — and I didn’t even know how to react. I started overthinking everything. And suddenly, I felt the full weight of my past rush in, whispering again that I’m not enough. That I’m inexperienced. That I don’t deserve a chance at love. All from a picture.

I’ve gotten to a point where I flinch at the very thing I crave.

I’m not writing this for pity. I’m writing this because I don’t want to keep living like this. I don’t want fear to keep making my choices. I don’t want perfection to keep trumping my humanity. I can’t walk into this next chapter as this person.

I want to say yes again.
To people.
To places.
To myself.

Because I’m realizing now — what I thought was protection was actually just postponing life.

And I don’t want to keep waiting.

I said no to joy.
To peace.
To love.

I told myself it would all pay off. That sacrificing my experiences, my relationships, even my happiness was worth it to make something of my life. But in truth, it left me feeling smaller. Less experienced. More self-critical. Less alive.

I found every excuse to confirm the narrative that I’m either too much or not enough.

And through it all, I clung to a dream. One I created when I was at my lowest as a child. A dream I carried close to my heart, believing everything would fall into place once I reached it. That dream became my safety. My reason to keep going. It whispered in the darkness: Just hold on. You’re going to be okay. You can make it happen.

But more than anything, it was the first thing that ever felt like it was truly mine.
Not something my parents gave me.
Not something shaped by friends.
Not society’s version of success.

Mine.
Unique.
Meaningful.
Personal.

And yet, even now, I’m realizing I’ve never truly let myself feel worthy unless I was actively moving toward that dream.

Because the dream was never complete.
It didn’t leave space for the nuance.
The in between.
The little things that make life worth living.

Whenever I found myself doing things that didn’t align, even if they made sense on paper, I slipped.
Into doubt.
Into the belief that maybe I’m not good enough for the thing that matters most.
Because deep down, I knew.
This wasn’t my true calling.

Even when I made time to work on my dream, it didn’t feel like enough.
It didn’t match the version of success I had built in my head.
I wasn’t impressed by the reception.
I felt like it kept falling short.

I just wanted to prove to myself that what I wanted is possible.
That my dream isn’t some fragile thing that needs to be hidden or constantly defended.

But still, I carried that quiet fear.
That if I eased up even for a second, I’d prove the people who projected their fear onto me right.
“Be realistic.”
“How’s this ever going to make money?”
“That’ll never happen.”
“Just focus on academics.”

And the truth is even after getting a PhD, even as I step into a new chapter, I feel myself slipping back into old habits.
Back into default settings.
Isolating.
Grinding.
Shutting the world out in the name of chasing a dream.
Not allowing myself to live because I keep moving the goalpost of success.

But I know what that really is now.
Just another attempt to prove myself.
Not to them.
To me.

And honestly?
Even when I was actively pursuing what I wanted, it didn’t feel like enough.
Because I didn’t care about the journey.
Only the arrival.
I wanted financial stability to make it feel real.
To make it legit.
For people to finally see the value in what I was doing.
To see that I am valuable.
That I am worth the effort.

But even saying that feels selfish.
Because deep down, I know my work has mattered.
It is valuable.
It’s impactful.
And beyond it all, I am, have been, and always will be enough.

I just denied myself the right to feel that,
because I discredited myself—
just like so many others once did—
for not making money from it,
for not being able to see what I see for myself,
for not being able to see who I am beyond what I’m able to produce, beyond the productivity, and just being me.

I wanted to prove them wrong so badly
that I became them.
I am them.

It’s exhausting.
It’s always been exhausting.
And I’m ready to let go of that.

I’m ready to let go of the idea that my worth is measured by what I can produce, provide, prove, or afford, or that it’s measured by how I look, what I have or don’t have, or how people perceive me.

Because I’m not the same version of me who needed that dream just to survive.
I’m not the same version who can only see his value through the lens of people who never really saw him.
I’m not the same person who hasn’t paid his dues and done the work to live his life for himself on his own terms.

So I have to ask you:

When will you stop measuring your worth by impossible standards?

When will you let go of the shame that haunts you but was never truly yours?

When will you stop running from the love you’ve always deserved and finally allow yourself to receive it?

When will you believe that being seen doesn’t have to mean being judged, and that vulnerability is not weakness but truth?

When will you give yourself permission to be known fully, deeply, and honestly, and still trust that you are enough?

When will you let yourself be loved, not for what you achieve, but simply for who you are?

My story doesn’t have to be defined by regret, missteps, inexperience, or lack.

It can be an honest and beautiful journey, one that brought me to this point.

A story still unfolding, full of tension, hope, and the promise of what’s to come.

I don’t need to wait for permission.

Not from my parents or my family.

Not from my friends.

Not from strangers.

Not even from the version of myself who first dreamed this dream or the one who still thinks he needs validation to feel worthy.

I don’t have to wait for the dream to come true.

I don’t have to be perfect.

I just have to be.

And I hope, in this next chapter, you find the courage to believe in yourself fully, and the confidence to live a life that feels like home, one rooted in joy, safety, connection, peace, and purpose.

I hope you give yourself grace, especially on the hard days, and loosen the grip of self-judgment and expectations that have kept you from seeing your own light.

I hope you stay open to the unknown and unfamiliar, say yes to what excites your soul or helps you explore the parts of yourself that make the many versions of you feel alive.

Take your shot at every opportunity that speaks to your heart.

Experience dating. Raise the bar on romance.

Navigate your desires with curiosity, courage, and intentionality.

Embrace and enjoy the process, and find someone who brings safety, peace, enthusiasm, and balance to your world.

And even if things don’t work out, even when rejection stings, I hope you continue to trust that you are worthy of being chosen and loved, over and over again, because your person is out there.

I hope you open your heart to new friendships and deepen the ones that make you feel seen.

That you love freely without holding back, and receive love without question.

That you travel wide and far, not only across the world, but into the deepest parts of yourself.

That you chase your calling, what feels true, meaningful, and uniquely yours, and that you are able to live from it abundantly.

And most of all, I hope you allow yourself to simply be, as you are, where you are, knowing that you are already enough.

And maybe one day, when you look back on this letter, you’ll smile.

Because you’ll know this was the moment it truly began.

Not when you earned the degree.

Not when the job came through.

Not even when love found its way back to you.

But right here, when you finally said yes.

Yes to yourself.

Yes to life.

Yes to the truth that you have always been worthy of living a life that feels like home.

Love,

Nigel Marcellus Taylor

May 23, 2025

Age: 30