The Thoughts That Stole My Life
How I stopped protecting myself from the life I truly want
I’m writing this from my tiny house, which I’ve lovingly described as the gay cowboy space bar of my dreams.
Outside, my mini wildflower meadow is exploding with black-eyed susans. Four rescue dogs are asleep on the couch next to me. The mortgage is paid this month. My refrigerator is full. I have work I enjoy, people I love, and enough freedom in my schedule to spend an afternoon writing an essay like this.
A younger version of me would have found this almost impossible to believe.
There was a time when I sold the paperback books I had for a couple bucks for groceries. A time when I cried on the phone with debt collectors. A time when I only ate dollar boxes of mac and cheese because that’s all I could afford. A time when I dug through dumpsters for food even though I had a full and part-time job.
Most of my twenties into my early 30s were spent so overwhelmed by debt, shame, and hopelessness that I genuinely struggled to imagine a future worth staying alive for.
In a few months, I’ll turn forty.
And what surprises me most isn’t that my life looks different. It’s that my mind looks different.
Because when I look back, many of the things that once felt impossible were never blocked by a lack of talent, intelligence, ambition, or hard work.
They were blocked by a handful of thoughts that I mistook for wisdom.
If you had asked me ten years ago what was standing between me and the life I wanted, I would have given you a list of external obstacles.
Money
Time
Student loans
Connections
The right opportunity
The way I look
More confidence
Better timing
A different childhood
What I would not have told you was that some of the biggest obstacles were living inside my own head — thoughts guiding my life that weren’t designed to help me live and thrive, but were designed to help me survive.
The thoughts that stole my life didn’t arrive announcing themselves as fear. They arrived disguised as wisdom.
They sounded responsible. Aware. Practical. Mature. Protective.
Looking back, I know they weren’t trying to hurt me. They were only trying to keep me safe like a protective parent who hasn’t yet processed their own shame, grief, fear, and longing.
The problem is that, eventually, these thoughts began protecting me from creating the very life I wanted to live.
Worry Was Trying to Protect Me from Uncertainty
Long before I knew I was autistic and had ADHD, I knew I worried more than other people.
I worried about saying the wrong thing. Missing something important. Forgetting an assignment. Being too much. Being misunderstood. Being rejected.
Looking back, I can see how much energy I spent trying to anticipate every possible outcome before it happened. If I could predict what was coming, maybe I could prepare for it. Maybe I could finally relax.
The irony is that I never relaxed.
A certain amount of anxiety is useful. Research suggests moderate levels of anxiety can improve preparation and performance. Anxiety has a purpose.
The problem is that somewhere along the way, I stopped using worry as information and started using it as a form of control.
I believed that if I worried enough, I could prevent pain.
If I thought hard enough about every possible outcome, maybe I could avoid being surprised. Maybe I could avoid loss. Maybe I could avoid heartbreak.
I’ve spent much of the past month confronting the limits of that strategy.
Just a few months ago, I was finally brave enough to admit to something I wanted: I wanted to become a parent.
Not someday. Soon.
For years that desire felt too vulnerable to fully acknowledge. Then I finally let myself want it.
Shortly afterward, the future I thought I was building unraveled. My partner’s mental health deteriorated. The relationship fractured and became less secure. The plan and the certainty I thought I had disappeared almost overnight.
Suddenly, I was back in one of the places I hate most: uncertainty.
No amount of worrying changed what happened. No amount of rumination made the situation easier.
All worry accomplished was stealing my attention. And attention is the raw material of a life. It’s the raw material of creativity.
Of love. Of joy. Of presence.
For years, I thought worry was helping me prepare for life. More often, it has only prevented me from fully participating in it.
Perfectionism Was Trying to Protect Me from Judgment
I’ve spent nearly a decade trying to publish a novel. Not because it takes a decade to write a book, though it certainly can!
But because writing a book and sending it into the world are two very different things.
Over the years, I’ve thrown away hundreds of pages. Rewritten entire sections. Revised whole drafts. Celebrated moments of interest from agents only to discover we weren’t ultimately the right fit.
There are days I wonder whether the book will ever find a home. Weeks and months I wonder whether all this effort will amount to anything at all.
Perfectionism would love certainty.
It would love a guarantee that the work will be rewarded before I continue, proof that I’m not wasting my time.
That’s the thing about perfectionism. It gets mistaken for excellence when it’s often fear wearing nicer clothes.
Fear of criticism, embarrassment, being misunderstood, discovering our limits.
Perfectionism promised that if I got everything right, I could avoid judgment and rejection. What it actually helped me avoid was being known.
The novel exists because I finally became willing to continue without guarantees. To write without certainty and share work before I knew how it would be received. To practice risking rejection in service of a creative vision I love.
The life I wanted required participation. Perfectionism kept offering protection instead.
Comfort Was Trying to Protect Me from Disappointment
One of the strangest truths I unfortunately keep learning is that familiar pain often feels safer than unfamiliar possibility.
Especially if chaos played a starring role in your early life. We adapt to what we know. Even when what we know hurts.
Sometimes we become so accustomed to struggle that peace feels suspicious. We become so familiar with disappointment that hope feels dangerous.
I’ve noticed this pattern in relationships, work, creativity, and happiness.
Again and again, I’ve found myself standing at the edge of something I deeply wanted while simultaneously feeling terrified to step toward it.
Not because it was wrong. But because it mattered. Because disappointment hurts. Loss fucking hurts.
But wanting something requires vulnerability.
The old version of me would have looked at the uncertainty of my life right now and taken it as evidence that hope was dangerous. That trusting people was dangerous. That wanting things was dangerous. But I’m trying to learn something different.
Disappointment is painful. Grief is painful. Loss is painful. And none of them are reasons to stop participating in life.
Comfort was trying to protect me from disappointment. The problem is that the life I wanted was almost never waiting inside my comfort zone.
I would have to make friends with discomfort if I wanted to experience something new.
Independence Was Trying to Protect Me from Being Let Down
This might be the thought that’s stolen the most from me.
If you’ve spent enough years being disappointed by people, “I have to do it myself” starts sounding like wisdom.
I have been so overwhelmed by debt for most of my adult life that I genuinely struggled to imagine a future. School debt. Then medical debt. Then credit card debt to fill the gaps created by the other debts.
There were moments when I felt so trapped by my financial situation that I wondered whether I would ever experience stability at all. Whether I had ruined my life simply by deciding to get an education or go out into the world.
I didn’t want luxury.
I wanted breathing room.
I wanted to stop feeling afraid.
There were periods when I felt so hopeless that I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep going.
During those years, depending on other people rarely felt like a viable option. Self-reliance wasn’t a personality trait. It was the only survival strategy I had.
Looking back, I think part of what I called independence was grief. Grief that support wasn’t available. Grief that needing people had often felt dangerous. Grief that trusting others had often ended in disappointment.
The belief that I had to do everything alone helped me survive. But it also made my world smaller.
Because the truth is that nearly every meaningful transformation in my life has happened through relationship.
Teachers.
Friends.
Therapists.
Mentors.
Readers.
Community.
Creativity itself is relational. Every book, story, or piece of art that’s changed me was another human reaching across space and time, saying, me too.
The life I wanted was never going to be built alone.
Waiting Was Trying to Protect Me from Vulnerability
This is perhaps the most convincing thought of all.
I’ll start living when the debt is gone. When the book is published. When my relationship feels secure. When I lose weight. When I heal more. When I finally know what I’m doing.
For years I treated my life as something that would truly begin later.
Just beyond the next milestone, accomplishment, and problem solved. But life kept happening while I waited.
The people I loved kept changing. The seasons kept passing. The opportunities kept arriving and disappearing.
There is no future version of me who finally earns permission to fully enjoy being alive.
There is only this life. This imperfect moment. This unfinished chapter.
Waiting feels like putting your arms out in front of you, palms out, in an attempt to push life away. Waiting was trying to protect me from being vulnerable.
I know now that vulnerability is the cost of admission for a meaningful life.
My Thoughts Were Never the Enemy
Looking back, I don’t hate these thoughts like I once did. In many ways, I’m grateful for them. They emerged for good reasons.
They helped me survive difficult things:
Worry tried to protect me from uncertainty.
Perfectionism tried to protect me from judgment.
Comfort tried to protect me from disappointment.
Independence tried to protect me from being let down.
Waiting tried to protect me from vulnerability.
The thoughts that stole my life were never trying to hurt me. They were trying to make sure I never got hurt again.
The problem is that, eventually, they began protecting me from love, creativity, community, uncertainty, and possibility, too.
In other words, they began protecting me from life itself.
Every meaningful thing I’ve ever wanted has required me to practice vulnerability and acceptance of what I fear.
Love requires uncertainty.
Creativity requires imperfection.
Growth requires discomfort.
Community requires interdependence.
A meaningful life requires participation before guarantees arrive.
These days, I’m trying to relate to these thoughts differently. Not by fighting them or trying to eliminate them. But by recognizing them for what they are:
Old protectors
Former survival strategies
Voices that helped me get here
Voices that no longer get to decide where I go next
Later this week, I’ll share the practical framework I’ve been using to identify these protective thoughts and begin relating to them differently.
The goal isn’t to eliminate fear. The goal is to stop handing it the keys.
Because one of the thoughts that has stolen the most from me is the belief that I have to do everything alone, I’ve been creating Creative Reset Studio as an extension of my 1:1 client work — a place to practice something different in community.
A place for people who want to stop postponing their lives.
A place to create, reflect, experiment, and grow alongside others.
A place to remember that becoming ourselves was never meant to be a solitary act.
If that sounds like something you’re curious about, I’d love for you to join the early interest list.
Reply here or send me a message on Instagram @bowierowie if you’d like to learn more about the Founding Membership opening this summer.