Reaching this point feels like success: I have a published book out in the world for others to read. Somehow, in the chaos of motherhood, I carved out the time to achieve this goal—much like I once dedicated hours to train for my Chicago marathons. I’ve always had countless stories in the works, but starting with a children’s book and one of my favorite short stories felt like a strong beginning. Really, starting anywhere—somewhere—was a small victory. Much like marathon training, I didn’t fully know what the publishing process would entail.

“I want to be an author when I grow up.” That’s what I eagerly wrote in my childhood journal, hoping my teacher would see it. I was already the self-appointed “boss” of my own book company, Books N’ Stories, where I wrote about my annoying cat and brave ladybugs who guided bees to a new home. Instead of selling lemonade, I sold books I had xeroxed and stapled at the church office down the street. I even “employed” my siblings and friends by creating little workstations for them in the basement of our Chicago bungalow.

In eighth grade, my language arts teacher asked me to read a descriptive paragraph aloud to the class. As a quiet middle schooler, it was one of the rare times I felt confident. I wasn’t interested in boy bands or caught up in the basketball team drama. I preferred running alone with my ‘90s radio armband and writing in my locked journal. I thrived in those solo activities, where I could escape into my own ideas.

In high school, I struggled to master the standard five-paragraph essay. I’ll admit that after long cross-country practices and two bus rides home, I didn’t spend as much time researching or refining my papers as some of my peers. I was exhausted, caught up in teenage life and the joy of running with my circle of teammates. I wasn’t the fastest, but my passion for running grew—while writing became something I kept mostly private. When my essays came back dripping in red ink, full of formatting errors, I didn’t take huge offense. I knew formal essay writing wasn’t my strength, but I wanted to improve. Looking back, I’m grateful for those harsh dissections of my work from teachers and classmates. Their feedback helped me develop, little by little, into a more careful editor of my own words as I embraced my creativity.

Still, I often let self-scrutiny stop me from sharing my writing. For years, that was my excuse. Eventually, I heard the reminder I needed: you can edit forever, but at some point, you have to let the work go. So I found pockets of time in the chaos of life, and slowly, I was able to write with an intention to publish. 

I still feel a bit vulnerable sharing my work, but here I am—with something finished. Like the blisters on my heels and the burn of tired muscles during marathon training, reaching this stage has meant pushing through self-doubt. I’m at the starting line of publishing: launching my website, sharing a children’s book, and putting one of my short stories into the world. I’m no longer just part of the onlooking crowd, keeping my words hidden in journals and Post-it notes.

Whatever it is you still want to accomplish, I hope you find your pockets of time to make it happen. 

Thank you for your support. 

Best,

Kelly