Your Brain Can’t See Your Own Gifts
And that’s why your New Year’s resolutions keep failing
I cried when I opened the email.
Christmas morning. Still in pajamas. Coffee going cold. And there it was, a message from Cyndi Stewart that made tears stream down my face. Not sad tears. Tears of joy and appreciation and something I desperately needed to hear.
“Whatever you do for your job, your writing is always your gift.”
I screenshot that line immediately. It’s now my phone wallpaper. Every time I unlock my screen, when I’m sick or tired or exhausted, I see those words. Your writing is a gift.
I’ve never seen it as such. And thanks to Cyndi, now I do.
The Gift I Didn’t Know I Had
Here’s what Cyndi didn’t know when she sent that email: I was running on empty.
The week before Christmas, I’d posted about taking a corporate job while continuing to build Courage to Create. The response was overwhelming, people relating to the messiness of creative work, the reality of needing stability while chasing dreams.
But behind that post? I was questioning everything.
Was my writing actually making a difference? Should I accept that writing was a hobby, not a calling?
I was stuck in survival mode, where everything becomes transactional. Write the article. Send the email. Check the analytics. Rinse and repeat.
When you’re teaching others to see their gifts, there’s a devastating irony. I coach people through identity transformation. I watch them realize they’re extraordinary. I guide them to write their way into new versions of themselves. But me? I was still waiting for someone to tell me I was allowed to call myself a writer.
I never saw my writing as a gift. I saw it as work. Output. Content. Something I had to produce to build credibility, grow an audience, eventually monetize.
Then Cyndi’s email arrived.
“Your writing is always your gift.”
Not can be a gift. Not might become a gift if you work harder or get more subscribers.
Is. Present tense. Already true. Independent of outcomes.
That five-word phrase shifted my entire relationship with my craft.
Because here’s what I suddenly understood: A gift doesn’t require performance metrics. A gift isn’t measured by open rates or conversion funnels. A gift exists whether anyone acknowledges it or not; but when someone does acknowledge it, something sacred happens.
You remember why you started.
The Gifts We Can’t See in Ourselves
We’re all walking around blind to our own gifts.
The things that come naturally to us, the things that flow through us with ease, don’t register as special. We assume everyone can do what we do. We minimize what feels effortless.
There’s actually neuroscience behind this. Your reticular activating system, the part of your brain that filters what you notice, is wired to spot threats and opportunities outside yourself. It’s not designed to highlight your own value. You literally can’t see what makes you extraordinary the way others can.
This is why Future Scripting works. When you write down who you’re becoming in vivid detail, you’re hacking your RAS to recognize your own gifts. Your nervous system believes what you write. But first, you have to write it.
The problem? Most of us are waiting for permission to claim our gifts.
Let me be clear about the difference:
Skills are what you’ve learned. You’ve practiced, studied, refined them. They’re valuable, but they often deplete you.
Gifts are what flows through you. They energize you even when you’re exhausted. They feel less like work and more like breathing.
My writing is a gift. Your thing, whatever you’re struggling with right now, might be your gift too.
The things that feel easy to you? They’re extraordinary to someone else.
That friend who makes people feel seen? Gift.
Your colleague who explains complexity with clarity? Gift.
The way you sense what someone needs before they ask? Gift.
You might be exhausted because you’re fighting your gift instead of flowing with it. You might be treating it like a job when it’s actually your purpose wearing work clothes.
Receiving Your Own Gifts
My new phone screen is more than a reminder. It’s a daily practice in receiving what’s already mine.
Every time I see “Your writing is a gift,” something shifts. My shoulders drop. My breathing deepens. The pressure I’ve been carrying: to perform, to prove, to produce, loosens its grip.
Here’s the paradox: External validation doesn’t define your gift, but it helps you steward it.
The gift exists whether anyone sees it or not. But when someone names your gift? When they hold up a mirror and say, “This is what I see in you”? That’s when you start treating it as sacred instead of transactional.
Before Cyndi’s email, writing when sick felt like pushing a boulder uphill. I was forcing it, resenting it, questioning why I was sacrificing rest for something that might not matter.
After her email, writing when sick feels like honoring something bigger than me. The gift doesn’t demand perfection. It doesn’t require optimal conditions. It just asks to be expressed.
Here’s what I want you to consider:
What would change if you saw YOUR work as a gift?
Not the hustle. Not the grind. Not the resume-building, platform-growing version of your work.
The core thing. The essence. The part that makes you come alive even when you’re depleted.
What if your presence, not just your production, is the gift?
The Gift Inventory
Grab your pen. You’re about to write your way into recognition.
Step 1: See It
Ask yourself: “What do people thank me for that I barely notice?”
Write for 5 minutes. Don’t filter. Don’t dismiss.
Step 2: Write It
Complete this sentence 10 different ways:
“My gift is _____ because when I _____, people feel _____.”
Examples:
“My gift is presence because when I listen deeply, people feel truly heard.”
“My gift is writing because when I share my truth, people feel permission to share theirs.”
Step 3: Act As If
Choose your strongest answer. Now write:
“If I truly believed [my specific gift] was my gift to the world, what would I do differently tomorrow?”
Write in present tense. Be specific. Paint the picture so vividly your nervous system starts believing it.
Your pen is your permission slip.
You don’t need to wait for your Cyndi to tell you. Though when they arrive, and they will, let their words land. Screenshot them. Make them your wallpaper. Let them keep you going.
Because here’s what I know now:
Your gift is already wrapped. You’ve been carrying it all along. Sometimes you just need someone to point at the package in your hands and say, “Open that. The world needs what’s inside.”
The Ripple
One email. One moment. Infinite impact.
Cyndi took two minutes to write seven sentences. She had no idea I was questioning everything. She didn’t know I needed those exact words on that exact day.
She just saw a gift and named it.
That’s the thing about gifts, they’re meant to circulate. When you receive yours, you become able to see others’ gifts more clearly. The recognition creates a ripple.
So here’s my invitation:
Tell me in the comments: What do people thank you for that you dismiss as “nothing”?
Tag someone whose gift you see clearly. Be their Cyndi. Write the email. Send the text. Hold up the mirror.
Screenshot your own reminder. Put it somewhere you’ll see it when you’re sick or tired or exhausted.
Your writing is a gift. YOU are a gift. Now go see it. Write it. Live it.
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I hear people say they love to write, and I think they are different from me. I can't say I love to write. I do it. That's it. To be honest, it must be a gift, because it flows through me like water through a sieve. It comes easily and when I read it back, months or weeks later, I think, "Did I write that? Holy smokes!" It is like a wind that comes through me and then leaves. I guess that makes it a gift. I need to stop seeing it as something to be strangled and tamed and nailed down and turned into money. Thank you so much for this post.
❤️ 👍