Am I Really Doing This? (And What If I Don’t Belong Here?)
I haven’t hit “approve” yet, but the wheels are turning. The book is at the publisher, website is live, and the countdown is quietly ticking.
And I’m terrified.
I feel like I’ve just pulled the fire alarm on my own ego—and now I’m standing in front of everyone, sirens blaring, hoping the building doesn't collapse. I didn’t think it would feel this vulnerable. I didn’t think I’d feel this exposed.
Because here’s the truth:
I don’t think I belong in the “published author” world. I’m not one of them. I have dyslexia, don’t read well, never read the classics, and I don’t have a favorite author. I have ADHD, which means I rarely finish a book, let alone sit still long enough to pretend I’ve absorbed one cover to cover.
I never saw myself writing a novel—especially not one like this. If someone handed me a microphone and asked me to read from my book at a signing, I’d probably butcher it; stumble, go flat, get tongue-tied.
If someone asked who inspired me, I’d go blank, because honestly my inspiration wasn’t a writer, but instead, a moment I couldn’t forget, a question I couldn’t shake, and a story that wouldn’t leave my head until I wrote it down—even if I didn’t think I was “qualified.”
I didn’t become a writer to impress anyone, just needed to share the space in my head. And now that it’s finally coming into the world—on real pages, with a real cover, on a real website—I’m panicking. What if it sucks? What if everyone’s watching—and no one’s clapping? What if the story that carried me for 17 years… falls flat the second I let it go? I’ve never had this much potential for public failure, and I’ve never felt this fragile.
But I also know this:
I showed up. I stayed with it. I told the story only I could tell. And if you've ever felt like an outsider—if you've ever doubted whether your voice belonged in the room—I hope this reminds you: maybe you don’t need permission. Maybe you just need the guts to press "go."
