It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
I have found myself in the arena over the past two years quite a bit, and I have the battle scars to prove it. I have had the desire to write about my experiences for some time, but have held back because I’m not a creative person. I’m also not a writer. And I’m scared to put myself out there. I’ve been camped out in the entrance to the arena for months now, trying to work up the nerve to go in again. The excuses are a mile long, but if I keep letting them get the best of me, this unused creativity will burn a hole in my soul. So, this is me, daring greatly and stepping into the arena once again.