Most people want something — a dream job, a better body, a finished novel, a sense of peace. But not everyone is willing to pay the price. That’s where the gap lives: not in the dream, but in the doing.

Getting what you want starts with getting honest. Not social-media honest, not “New Year’s resolution” honest, but quietly, fiercely honest — the kind that whispers in the dark when no one’s watching. What do you really want? Not what you’re supposed to want. Not what sounds impressive. What moves you?

When I was 22, I told everyone I wanted to be a writer. But I spent more time scrolling than writing, more time comparing than creating. It wasn’t laziness. It was fear. Writing meant confronting myself. It meant possibly failing at the one thing I said I loved. So I danced around it. Made playlists. Bought notebooks. Rearranged my desk. Everything but the work.

One day, I saw a quote taped to the wall of a small café in Brooklyn: “Discipline is remembering what you want.” That hit me. Hard. Because deep down, I did know what I wanted. I just wasn’t acting like it.

Motivation isn’t a lightning strike. It’s a choice. A daily one. You don’t need to be fired up to start — you need to start to get fired up. The spark often comes after the motion, not before.

A friend of mine once lost 40 pounds over the course of a year. No fad diet. No miracle solution. Just walking an hour every morning, rain or shine, and saying no to soda. Simple. Repetitive. Relentless. He told me, “I stopped waiting to feel motivated. I just did it, and eventually it felt weird not to.”

The same applies to careers, relationships, art. It’s not about grand gestures. It’s about small actions, done consistently, with belief — or at least hope — that they’ll lead somewhere. And if they don’t? You’ll adjust. That’s the thing: movement reveals direction. You don’t need the whole map to take the next step.

Getting what you want means saying no to what you don’t want — even when it’s easier, even when it’s familiar. It means getting up early, or staying up late. It means finishing what you start, especially on the days when it’s boring, when no one claps, when the doubt is louder than the faith.

It also means forgiving yourself when you mess up, because you will. Everyone does. The difference is whether you get back up. Whether you try again. Whether you remember why you started.

I still don’t have it all figured out. But I write now. Even when it’s bad. Even when it’s hard. And I’ve learned this: getting what you want isn’t magic — it’s motion. It’s choosing, again and again, to move toward the life that calls you louder than your excuses.

And that’s a choice worth making.