A Word On Purpose: Honouring The Callings On Your Heart
July 12th, 2024
A wildly confronting, grippingly honest personal essay written by one of our in-house wordsmiths, Charlotte Jade Askew.
Written for The Artist’s Lens Collection.
Editorial design and editing by Casey Balon.
Late last year, a few months shy of my thirtieth birthday, my relationship broke down. It felt like a relatively complete shattering of the world I had built around myself. I was suddenly alone in the United States, oceans away from my home and family in Australia.
I’d been back and forth between the two countries for the prior two and a half years on a visa that allowed me six months with a possible six-month extension each time I re-entered the US. My partner was pursuing his career goals on a sports visa at the time, and we weren’t married, so I didn’t qualify for a partner visa.
much of it felt foreign to me
Looking around at my life, I didn’t feel like I recognized or understood much of it as my own. That might seem like an odd statement to make, but so much of it felt foreign to me. As if it had manifested the way a stone might gain momentum down a slope.
Written by Charlotte Askew
(click here to read about her)
Article 05 of The Artist’s Lens collection.
What we are covering in this article:
*click below to navigate directly to the section you wish to read, or continue with the story as you were
1. Facing the blinding truth (I could not fathom how I had created this life for myself)
2. I loved me, but I still wasn’t choosing me (I finally felt like I loved myself for the first time)
3. The one thought that tormented me (what happens when we don’t make the art we are beckoned to make)
4. To write books (answering the call to authorship)
5. Article Break (receive our articles straight to your inbox)
6. Since I had language (writing manuscripts by hand)
7. A woman sitting in Texas (with not a novel to my name)
8. Realising I had never tried to write the book (when rock bottoms make everything clear)
9. The desire I harboured more than any other (the moment of reflection that stilled my soul)
10. What we loved when we were children, before the world got in the way (we are all called to purpose in our lives)
11. A wild misrepresentation (to deny the voice of the heart is to deny the innermost self)
12. Our Bookshop (shop our ever-growing selection of books for creatives)
13. Last September (to not pursue writing would be to deny every sense of understanding I had of myself)
14. A choice of commitment (I would no longer settle for writing in isolation, or writing on the peripheries of what I truly desired)
15. Resigning the way (submitting a manuscript was going to happen—with or without an MFA)
16. A felt sense in my soul that I am home (the complete destruction of what I built whilst out of sync with my soul)
17. The resources we deliver at Casey Jacque (essays on whole body health, creative career building, creative direction, intentional travel, sustainable living, love and relating, and more)
Facing the blinding truth:
I could not fathom how I had created this life for myself.
I had a handful of friends, with only a couple I would count as lasting connections, all of whom I had met through and with my partner. I was working a job that didn’t fulfil me. I had a semi-drivable second-hand car, which turned out to be an absolute lemon that I wasted thousands of dollars on, and I was spending 90% of my time at home, alone while my partner was away travelling the country for his career.
facing the blinding truth.
I had years of self-growth work behind me, a psychology degree, courses in multiple therapies and a coaching certification, and yet, I could not fathom how I had created this life for myself. I was blindingly unhappy, lonelier than I had ever been in my life, and utterly devastated by the failure I perceived my relationship was.
I loved me, but I still wasn’t choosing me:
Oddly, I had done so much work on myself that I finally felt like I loved myself for the first time in my life.
And that was perhaps one of the first realizations that I had. I was worthy of more than how I’d been treated and being the last thing on my list of priorities. I had changed, but my circumstances had not. I loved me, but I still wasn’t choosing me.
At the time, I felt like I was bits and pieces of a person, and I had no idea what I was going to do next. Would I move home to Australia? Logistically, I had four months left on my visa, a dog, and an apartment lease. Not to mention all my furniture and cutlery and clothes.
The one thought that tormented me:
what happens when we don’t make the art we are beckoned to make.
As much as all those physical aspects mattered and were a genuine cause of stress, only one thought tormented me. A loud, persistent piece of self-talk that seemed to come from someplace deeper than myself.
The thought was this: I never imagined I’d be thirty without having published a book.
More than my breakup and the hollow, sucking pain of betrayal. More than the decision about where I would live and what to do with all my things. When I looked at my life, that’s what reverberated back.
To write books:
answering the call to authorship.
If someone were to ask me, what’s the one thing I’ve always wanted in life as far back as I can remember? I would answer, without a moment’s hesitation, to be an author.
To write books.
That desire felt as old as time itself, and I was about to reach thirty, having never actively dedicated to it. That felt both momentous and harrowing.
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Since I had language:
writing manuscripts by hand.
I’d been telling stories since I had language to tell them. When I learned to read, I needed extra tutoring because instead of reading the words off the page, I’d look at the pictures and make up my own story. Telling stories just seemed to be something that was in me. I remember saving my pocket money to buy a thick, spiral-bound A4 notebook when I was about nine or ten and writing my first manuscript by hand on the pages, smudging graphite in barely legible cursive. Then I saved again, bought another, and filled those pages with my second manuscript. About the time I hit high school, the organisation my Dad worked for turned their laptop computers over for the latest model, and he got me one of the old ones for cheap. I transitioned to typing my third and fourth manuscripts.
A woman sitting in Texas:
with not a novel to my name.
I didn’t show any of my stories to anyone or even talk about what I was writing, though I don’t recall anyone ever asking. I did it for me. Perhaps, in some ways, as an escape to a reality other than my own. A chance to experience life through another lens. But more than that, stories just seemed to be the calling on my heart—the ultimate purpose of my existence here on Earth in this physical manifestation of my soul.
Yet, decades later, I was sitting in Texas, nearly thirty, newly single, desperately heartbroken, and with not a single published novel to my name.
Realising I had never tried to write the book:
when rock bottoms make everything clear.
It was as if someone had taken a magnifying glass and channelled a beam of sunlight through the centre of my life until it smouldered into a hole, and I dropped right through into a free fall that ripped the screams right out of my mouth.
My life as I knew it was falling apart, and there I was, more concerned with the part of it I’d never had in the first place.
Why in the world had I not published a novel yet?
And more to the point, why had I yet to try?
It wasn’t that I thought I needed to be published by thirty. I’d never set that specific goal. It was that second question that plagued me. I’d always intended to write books, and with a brutal, terrifying kind of awe, it was the realisation that I’d never even tried that took the breath from me.
The desire I harboured more than any other:
the moment of reflection that stilled my soul.
Since those first handwritten manuscripts, I’d been writing and writing and writing, and scrapping and scrapping and scrapping pages. (Roughly five manuscripts of various stages of completion live on my MacBook. )
I’d never made an effort to take it seriously. To really give it a go. I never sat down and decided I would attempt to publish anything I had created. Yet I harboured this desire more than any other.
There were half-hearted attempts. Half-hearted commitments to get something polished for submission. Competitions I dabbled in and courses I took, but nothing serious. Nothing that eventuated. I never even told anyone I was a writer.
I’m not saying publishing is the only outcome or end goal for a creative writing pursuit or, in fact, any writing pursuit. The moment of reflection that stilled my soul was the fact that it was something I wanted, deeply wanted, that I never seriously committed to.
And I think that happens to us much more than we give credit.
What we loved when we were children, before the world got in the way:
we are all called to purpose in our lives.
For some people, that might be a particular thing; for others, it can be a variety of different things. Very often, it's something we loved when we were children before the world got in the way. Back when there used to be no question. Before we were too afraid and money became the focus.
when money and conformance.
Money was a huge for my family. We never had enough of it, so money was security; ultimately, that’s what got in the way for me— that and my habit of conforming to expectations. I’ve been living to abide by other people’s expectations as far as my memories go back. I was so desperate to be loved that I made every attempt to be whatever I believed everyone else deemed acceptable, loveable even.
A wild misrepresentation:
to deny the voice of the heart is to deny the innermost self.
When it came time to graduate high school, the fact that I loved writing meant very little to anyone but me. I received advice in all directions to pick a 'sensible' career. A safe career. Something secure, with a tangible, well-paid outcome at the end of it. Study teaching and be a teacher. Study medicine and be a doctor. Study law and be a lawyer. It was probably sound advice, mostly coming from a place of genuine care for me and my future, but it was wildly misrepresented as the route to happiness.
To deny the call placed on our hearts —the calling for our lives—regardless of how much money we make or success we enjoy, denies the self. It leaves us walking the Earth ever wanting. A shell of the woman we might have been.
While over time, we might forget the calling, and the sound of it might diminish to a mere whisper occasionally caught on a sultry evening breeze, I firmly believe there will always come a day when we step back and look at our lives and feel more than we see, what our full expression might have been.
Last September:
to not pursue writing would be to deny every sense of understanding I had of myself.
Without following the calling on our hearts, there is a facet of our self-expression—the very essence of who we are—that goes unknown to us and unknown to the world, and there is deep, nearly indescribable, pain inherent in that experience. A wound that gapes, decayed and weeping.
It was this wound I noticed for the first time last September.
It was suddenly abundantly clear that I was staring down the barrel of turning forty and then fifty and every year onward without publishing a single thing, and the idea ripped the balance right out of my knees.
I knew, without question or doubt, that to not pursue writing would be to deny every sense of understanding I had of myself.
A choice of commitment:
i would no longer settle for writing in isolation, writing on the peripheries of what i truly desired.
I decided to commit to the desire, but I knew I needed help. I chose to apply to study for a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Fiction, and with MFA deadlines closing in December, I began throwing together my application package and submission piece in earnest. I researched universities across Australia and the USA and selected eight that fit what I thought I wanted from an MFA program.
I want to be clear: I don’t think studying for an MFA is necessary to be published or successful as an author; countless authors have never set foot inside a university classroom. I chose this path because of the following personal reasons:
1. I wanted to make a particularly tangible commitment to myself. A kind of grand gesture, large enough that I would know I was (finally) fully stepping into this as my life’s mission and…
2. I didn’t trust myself to get it done on my own. After all, I haven’t to date, and saying to myself I was going to finish a manuscript to a publishable standard felt like the same thing I’d been vaguely intending without achieving my whole life. I didn’t want to spend another year working and writing in isolation on the peripheries of that. I knew an MFA would give me the community I craved and the training in the nuances of technique that I knew I needed. My writing voice was solid. I’d written enough that I’d stumbled into my unique voice, and my training in psychology meant I was reasonably good at developing well-rounded characters, but I was very aware that my skills in plot, structure and POV, among other things, were significantly lacking.
Resigning the way:
submitting a manuscript was going to happen—with or without an MFA.
I wasn’t resigned to an MFA being the only way. I was well aware there were no guarantees that I would get offered a place, and the big catch was that I wouldn’t be able to afford it unless I received an assistantship. So, my decision looked more like this: If this was meant to be an aspect of my path and journey as a writer, it would be, and a way would be made for me to do it. If not, I would find other ways to commit tangibly (writing groups, short courses, etc.) and still make polishing and submitting a manuscript my goal for 2024.
I found in that decision that I could be open to the possibility in an energetic space of joy, knowing that I was finally choosing my writing either way. And whilst the rest of my life did require a considerable measure of rearranging during that time, I felt as though I was ironing it out into something that was ultimately, and remarkably, recognizable as mine.
Five months (and waves and waves of uncertainty) down the track, on a stiflingly humid day in Brisbane, Queensland, I received a phone call from one of the universities I applied to. They were offering me a place in their program. A place with a full scholarship that I hadn’t applied for or even known existed.
In the words of Paulo Coelho in The Alchemist, “…when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”
I think there is another component to that, if I may be so bold as to add one. You must not only want your destiny but believe in the possibility of it. If I hadn’t come to a place in my self-growth journey where I loved myself and was showing up in my life with confidence, I doubt I’d be sitting here, writing this today.
Now, there is a felt sense in my soul that I am home:
the complete destruction of that which I built whilst out of sync with my soul.
It is with the unique pleasure of hindsight that I can see every moment of my life thus far culminating to bring me exactly to this achievement. I truly believe that the events that are now unfolding in my life are manifesting as a result of me embracing the truest, most authentic expression of my self—honouring the purpose for which I believe I was conceived on this planet.
I’ve spent so long denying this desire, holding onto it whilst it slipped away, committing infrequently and with long bouts of crippling self-doubt, always walking through the world trying to find something that fills me up the way writing does.
There is a felt sense in my soul that I am home. The coming undone was a revolution. The very necessary and complete destruction of what I’d built for myself whilst out of sync with my true self. That is the unexpected and extraordinarily delicious gift of this era of my life. I know now that I will never again forgo what speaks in my soul for what others might imagine needs to be heard.
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Article Written by Charlotte Jade Askew, In-House Writer at Casey Jacque
Charlotte is a Writer, Play Therapist, and Energetic Psychology Coach living in rural Texas. Born and raised on the rugged West Australian Coastline, she is a holistic practitioner, working with the conscious and subconscious mind to cocreate transformative, mindbody healing. Her affinity for being out-of-doors rather than in, means it’s likely that when she’s not with clients or writing, you’ll find her with her horses or barefoot, sipping organic coffee.
Let’s Connect! Instagram: @inner_chatter
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