I didn’t expect my eyes to well up, but they did—fast and without warning, like a sudden summer storm you swear you didn’t see coming.

It caught me off guard mostly because this wasn’t supposed to be that moment yet. It’s just a proof. Not the finished book. Not the one that gets stacked on tables or slid into bags at events or signed with a Sharpie that never quite works the first time.

And still.

Holding it in my hands made everything real in a way my brain hasn’t quite caught up with. There’s something about weight. About pages. About the quiet thud of a book resting on your palms that says, This exists now. Not as an idea. Not as a Google Doc. Not as something you talk about carefully, as if saying it too loudly might scare it off.

Real.

I’ve spent years writing toward this without always knowing I was. Years of starting over. Of changing direction. Of doubting myself and then showing up anyway. Of writing through grief, through joy, through long stretches where nothing felt clear except the need to keep going.

And woven through all of it was a promise. One I made to Ken, and one I made to myself. To keep writing. To keep telling the truth as best I could. To trust that the work mattered, even when no one else could see it yet.

Somehow, all of that lives inside these pages now.

That’s the part that undid me.

This is why I write. Not for the proof copy moment, although I’ll admit that was pretty damn meaningful. But for the way writing holds time. The way it lets us carry love, loss, laughter, regret, and hope forward instead of leaving them scattered behind us.

This book exists because I kept showing up. Because I kept putting words on the page even when the outcome wasn’t clear. Because I trusted that the act of writing itself was enough to keep me moving.

If you’ve ever worked toward something quietly for a long time, I have a feeling you get this. The private persistence. The invisible effort. The moments where you wonder if you’re the only one who knows how much this thing matters to you.

You’re not.

📖 The Luck We Carry: Love, Loss, and the Stories That Shape Us is coming March 23, 2026. And while there’s still work ahead, holding that proof reminded me that the journey is already doing what it was meant to do.

If you’d like to follow along, get behind-the-scenes updates, and be the first to hear about the launch, I’d love to have you join my newsletter. You can sign up here.

And if this resonates, truly, I’d love to hear from you. Leave a comment, drop a ❤️, or share this with someone who’s been carrying a long-held dream of their own. Sometimes seeing someone else take a step forward is the nudge we need to keep going.

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