You know, throughout my entire adult life, there's been this one consistent desire gnawing at me: making videos. Not just any videos, but something meaningful. The irony is, I don't know the first thing about filming or editing. But still, the urge to record, to capture moments, stories, ideas—it’s always been there, lurking in the back of my mind.

I've dabbled in so many hobbies over the years. Tried my hand at painting, picked up a guitar, even delved into some tech projects. My room is littered with the remnants of these fleeting interests—a dusty easel in the corner, a neglected Arduino kit on the shelf. But no matter what I pursued, there was always something about videos that kept pulling me back. A gravitational force I couldn't quite explain.

Why did I chase after all these hobbies? Maybe creative work fascinates me. Or perhaps I wanted to prove to myself—or to others—that I could do it. Looking back on my younger years, it feels like I was searching for validation, a way to feel like I was enough. Yet, every time I thought about actually making a video, I'd freeze. The courage just wasn't there. And on the rare occasions I did start something, I'd criticize every frame, every cut, until I'd convinced myself it wasn't worth finishing.

I wanted to fly before I could even crawl.

It's funny, isn't it? How we can be our own worst enemies. I'd watch countless tutorials, read articles, even sketch out ideas in notebooks. But when it came time to press that record button, my finger would hover, and doubts would flood in. "Who am I to think I can do this? What if it's terrible? What if people laugh?"

I think deep down, I was afraid of not being perfect. That if I couldn't create something exceptional right out of the gate, there was no point in trying at all. It sounds absurd when I say it out loud, but that fear was real. It paralyzed me.

One day, I stumbled upon an old journal from my college days. Flipping through the pages, I saw the same patterns—grand plans left unrealized, dreams shelved because of self-doubt. It hit me then: I've spent so much of my life waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect skill set, the perfect version of myself to begin. But perfection is a mirage. It doesn't exist.

I wanted to fly before I could even crawl.

So, I've decided it's time to change. To silence that inner critic, or at least turn down its volume. If I keep waiting to be perfect, I'll be waiting forever. So, let's take the baby steps.

I pulled out my camera—a device I rarely used—and adjusted the settings. I took a deep breath and started recording. Just me, talking about these thoughts, these fears. It was raw and unpolished, but it was real.

When I watched it back, I cringed at first. The lighting was off, my voice wavered. But then I thought, "This is me. This is where I start."

I mustered up the courage to upload it to YouTube. Not for the world, but for me. A declaration that I'm beginning, that I'm finally taking that step forward. And who knows? Maybe someone out there will watch it and feel a little less alone in their own fears.

I know the road ahead won't be easy. There will be more doubts, more imperfect videos. But that's okay. Every expert was once a beginner. Every flight starts with a single flap of the wings.

I wanted to fly before I could even crawl. But now, I'm learning to crawl, to stand, to take those first shaky steps. And maybe one day, I'll soar.