Rise Like a Hot Air Balloon, Don't Shoot Up Like a Jetpack

The most important thing you can give to someone is support, a true belief in them. The kind that helps them believe in themselves…that they are capable, that they are enough, that they already have what they need inside of them to rise.

The right kind of motivation comes from love, trust, and reassurance. It’s like lighting the flame of a hot air balloon. You are shown your gifts, your spark, your strengths, your capabilities—and slowly, gracefully, you can begin to fill with the warm air full of confidence and self-worth. You lift off, slowly, gently, rising towards your potential, carried by the beauty of what is already inside of you.

When you don’t light the flame inside, but instead light a fire underneath.… A fire of fear. Of pressure. Of “if you don’t do this, you’ll get burned.” Instead of lifting off peacefully, you shoot up like a crazy person on a jetpack—jolted, scrambling, no time to think, just escaping the flames. It’s not about where you’re going—it’s about surviving.

You don’t rise because you believe in yourself. You rise because you’re terrified of what will happen if you don’t.And when your fuel is fear, your direction gets lost. You fly fast, but it’s frantic. And you spend your life trying to prove something wrong instead of building what’s right. Always changing your mind because nothing ever feels right.

The best thing you can do for a person is help them feel worthy, capable, safe to rise in their own time, in their own way. It’s like the warm air inside a hot air balloon. It comes from within. It’s gentle, steady and rises because it’s filled with something real—belief, encouragement and love. When you’re supported like that, you don’t have to blast off. You float upward, peacefully, guided by your own internal compass.

But fear-based motivation is different. It doesn’t lift you from within—it launches you like a jet engine. The fuel is fear. Doubt. Pressure. It’s not about becoming who you are, it’s about escaping the fire below. You shoot into the sky, but it’s violent. You’re moving fast, but not with clarity, just urgency. Not with direction, just force. You’re not rising because you’re ready. You’re being blasted upward because you’re scared.

Sure it’s “motivation”, but it’s the wrong kind. It’s not “I believe in myself so I’ll rise.” It’s “I have to prove them wrong or I’ll fall.”

Jet engine fuel runs out fast. And it leaves you burnt out, shaky, unsure how you even got where you are. But hot air, the kind that comes from love, from someone seeing your worth, that stays with you. It rises slowly, but it’s sustainable.

Usually people are doing it from a place of love, from wanting the best for you, but to teach someone how to fly, it has to start with the belief that they actually can.…

I’ve lived the opposite my whole life. Fear was instilled in me—it made me feel that who I am isn’t enough, that I won’t make it on my own, that I better get my shit together. I often said, “I was put on Vyvanse.” Like they forced it on me, but the most dangerous things don’t happen like that. Not in black and white. It’s much more subtle than that.

It’s the fear that you aren’t enough, that other people have something you don’t, the small inklings of doubt implanted in you that you start to believe yourself. The fear that: You’re falling behind. You’re too much. You’re not enough. And eventually—you really believe it.

That’s the part that people don’t see. It wasn’t a pill they handed me. It was a thousand moments of doubt and fear that added up. Until one day, I was the one who walked into the office and said, “I think I need help.” I was the one who put myself on Vyvanse. But really the Vyvanse is just the symbol, for me doubting my own abilities, for me having shame around who I was, and eventually attempting to alter who I am.

That’s what hurts the most, not that it was forced on me, because it wasn’t, but that I internalized fear so deeply I started to fear myself. I doubted my gifts, I didn’t think they were enough to carry me, so I reached for jet fuel. And that fuel worked, for a while, but it came at a cost.

I gave up on writing, on creating, on dreaming, on connecting, on laughing, on feeling. I gave up on myself. I chose a path that would get me somewhere, sure—but that somewhere was nowhere I actually wanted to be and that someone was not all the parts of who I actually was. And when I arrived, I couldn’t even recognize myself. A shell of a person, launched so fast by fear that her soul fell out somewhere along the way.