It’s been a week. My first book launched last Wednesday.
Unreal.
My brain is still catching up.
The most common question I’ve been asked in these last seven days is, “How does it feel?”
Part terrific, part terrified.
Why?
There’s a lot of real in this book. I have a habit of being brutally, yet kindly, honest when I communicate.
My childhood and upbringing weren’t always a rose garden.
Adulthood? More like lying on a bed of cacti.
The reality is, I wouldn’t trade any of it.
I wouldn’t trade any of it.
Doing so risks not knowing what I know now.
Sharing my story brought so much more than “Great job” or “The book was awesome.”
It created meaningful moments.
People felt seen in its pages, like a piece of them was planted there.
Like they weren’t alone.
Like if I made it out alive, maybe they can too.
And that makes me wonder…
If the outcome of sharing our story is connection like this, what really holds us back?
Fear of being misunderstood.
Fear of being exposed.
Fear that our story won’t matter.
Or maybe, deep down, fear that it will matter.
Because once it’s out there, it’s no longer just yours. It has the power to meet someone else right where they are.
That kind of honesty changes things.
I’m only one week in, and I already know this: the scary part isn’t the writing.
It’s the sharing.
But it might also be the point.
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