One month out.
One month until my first publication, a cookbook zine, is in the hands of so many people I love. I hope they love the zine back.
One month until I get my charcoal going, take a deep breath, channel my Papaw, and make shell dogs for a crowd.
One month until multiple dreams are realized. One month until I feel like I’ve taken a giant leap into this incredible endeavor, this passion, this life I’ve dreamed of since I was a little girl.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the feeling of wanting. It’s different from jealousy because what I want isn’t necessarily something someone else has that I’m coveting or wishing were mine. No, what I want has always been embedded deep in these bones.
It’s a dream I’ve had since I first picked up a pencil and wrote the “Kid’s Declaration of Independence,” handed it to my first-grade teacher, and she printed it out to share with the class and their families.
I learned then that I could put my ideas and thoughts into words, and that other people would find joy and connection in them. What a gift that has become.
Ever since we’re tiny little sentient beans, we’re asked what we want to do when we grow up. But that question is often really asking, “How do you want to make a lot of money?” And that’s honestly a completely different question.
Adults don’t really want to hear, “I want to host parties, write books, and talk about things that matter to me.” They want to hear doctor. Lawyer. Something that will bring both honor and a paycheck.
I learned pretty quickly that when I told adults I wanted to be a writer, they corrected me.
“You mean a journalist.”
So, for a while, I said yes. I want to be a journalist.
But the older I got, the more I learned about the realities and competitiveness of journalism. The idea of being assigned what to write, who to interview, and having my work filtered through someone else’s lens just wasn’t what I wanted. So I moved toward another path.
Being a psychologist called to me from an early age, and when I look back, I can pinpoint why.
It wasn’t the schooling or the prestige. It was the connection.
I wanted to sit with people. To listen. To help someone process what they were going through and remind them they weren’t alone. And, of course, I wanted to write about what I learned. I wanted to tell stories about how we show up for each other, how we survive hard things, how we make sense of the greater “why.”
So I happily earned my psychology degree. I pursued educational psychology, then found my way into human resources, where I am today. I still see sparks of that dream in my work every day, and that is a gift.
But there has always been this tug.
“When am I finally going to write a book?”
I’ve started blogs. I’ve written lengthy Instagram captions. I’ve guest-written for other publications. I’ve written countless things for work, sentimental birthday cards people have to read in private, and pages and pages of journals.
And yet, it has never quite felt like enough.
A couple of Saturdays ago, surrounded by empty cans of Dr Pepper and bags of Cadbury Orange Buttons, I hit “send” on the final copy of my first publication that is just...mine.
Well, duh. It’s not just mine. So many people helped bring this thing to life.
I love you, Julia, Tricia, Justin, and Sarah!
But the words? The stories? The recipes? What stayed, what got cut, what I decided was worth saying?
That’s my work, dude.
That is so freaking crazy.
Now, as I continue to annoy my designer with last-minute tweaks, she calmly reminds me:
“This is going to print on Friday.”
You know, so I can have it in time for August 29th.
As I sit here, with every passing minute bringing me closer to sharing my work with the world, I feel relief.
I feel gratitude.
I feel so vulnerable and scared.
And yet, I know what I have to do.
I know this is the first step toward whatever comes next. What happens after this could be big. It could be nothing.
But it will be the thing I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember.
And for now, that’s enough.
