I sat at my desk, staring at a to-do list filled with chapters to write, edits to make, and research to compile for my non-fiction book, Reshaping Your Reality: Thriving Through Transition. I had set myself an ambitious goal—90 days to finish and publish the book. At first, the pressure felt motivating, a way to ensure I followed through on a long-held goal of becoming an author.
But as I met each writing milestone, the process began to feel like a forced march. The project was a good idea, one I might still return to someday, but as I poured my energy into it, something in me started to resist. The more I wrote, the more I felt that the book wasn’t right for me at that time. The spark that had driven me to start it was no longer there.
And then came the whisper of a question I couldn’t ignore: What if you stopped?
It wasn’t about giving up. It was about listening—to myself, to what felt aligned, and to what wasn’t.
When the Stories Pause
When I began working on Reshaping Your Reality, it felt deeply connected to my life’s transitions—health scare, separation, divorce, relocation—all of which I had used as opportunities to grow and reinvent myself. The book’s premise reflected what I believed to be true: that resilience could be cultivated, and that change, however painful, could also be transformative.
But as I wrote, I realized I was grappling with unresolved emotions, including childhood trauma and a complex relationship with my late mother. Writing the book began to feel like an act of trying to prove something—to myself or others—that I hadn’t yet fully processed.
I wondered if I should push through and finish or let it go and follow my heart elsewhere. The latter felt like both a risk and a relief. When I gave myself permission to pause the project, my whole system resonated with the decision.
The Stories That Stay
Letting go of the book opened a floodgate of creativity. I returned to writing short stories, a form I hadn’t explored in years. The freedom to craft smaller, self-contained worlds reignited my passion for storytelling, allowing me to rediscover the joy that had brought me to writing in the first place.
One story in particular began as a seed from a true event that had recently taken place at Ashgate Hospice, where my father spent much of his final two years. At Ashgate, his condition was stabilized as an inpatient. Later, as a weekly day patient, he received ongoing care that extended his quality of life far beyond what we expected. In his final weeks, the hospice staff provided extraordinary compassion, ensuring his dignity and comfort.
The story that inspired Holding On was about an elderly couple who shared their final days together at Ashgate Hospice. Their love and resilience resonated deeply with me, and it became the foundation for my novel. The book follows siblings navigating their parents’ final days in hospice—an emotional journey rooted in themes of love, loss, and reconciliation.
Writing the novel has been deeply personal. It reflects not only my experiences of grief but also the profound impact of the care and support my dad and our family received from Ashgate Hospice. Those years left an indelible impression on me, shaping how I see caregiving, resilience, and the power of human connection.
The process has been cathartic but, at times, overwhelming. Revisiting these memories and weaving them into fiction often requires me to pause and regain emotional equilibrium. Now, I’m deep in editing, preparing to publish the book by early Spring. It’s been intense but rewarding, and I hope the story resonates with readers.
The Stories That Find Us
Through this creative rebirth, I’ve come to see that choosing joy is less about chasing fleeting happiness and more about honoring what feels true. Joy is a compass, not a map, pointing us toward what feels alive and meaningful. It doesn’t mean avoiding challenges—it means choosing the ones that resonate.
Letting go of Reshaping Your Reality wasn’t just about shelving a project. It was about learning to trust that the stories that matter most don’t come from forcing the process—they find us when we’re ready to tell them.
Ashgate taught me that resilience isn’t just about enduring—it’s about finding joy in the moments that matter, a lesson that has shaped not only my writing but my life.
Trusting the Bloom
Now, as I refine Holding On, I’m eager to share what I’ve learned with others. I know that healing, growth, and forgiveness don’t follow a straight path. It’s taken me almost half a century to reach this point, but if my work can offer comfort or inspiration—if it can help someone else navigate their transitions with fewer bumps and more clarity—then every detour will have been worth it.
Because sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is step away, trusting that the stories closest to our hearts—like seeds planted in fertile ground—will bloom not just when the time is right, but when we are ready and able to nurture them.