For the past six years, I’ve envisioned the moment I would sign with a literary agent, taking my first significant step toward publication. I’ve penned five—or maybe six—books and faced countless rejections from literary agents. Rejection has been my constant companion, a source of discouragement that I’ve come to know all too well. Yet, recently, everything changed.
I finally received a “yes.” That long-awaited email I had fantasized about, complete with sparkles and glitter, landed in my inbox. I imagined myself jumping for joy and sharing the news with the world. Instead, upon reading the email, I shut my laptop and proceeded to prepare lunch for my kids, as if this monumental moment hadn’t just unfolded. It wasn’t until I texted a few family and friends to share the news—only to temper their enthusiastic responses—that I realized my subdued reaction was odd.
I can’t quite pinpoint why I reacted this way. Perhaps it’s because we are all navigating the Great Pause, where joy and celebration feel muted. Or maybe the reality of such a long-anticipated moment never quite lives up to the fantasy. Unfortunately, the email didn’t arrive surrounded by sparkles—though I’ve yet to see an email do that.
More likely, my muted response stems from my past experiences of loss and grief. Two years ago, I learned a harsh truth: when something wonderful comes into your life, it can vanish in an instant. A beautiful, fulfilling marriage can slip away despite your best efforts to hold on. When you lose something precious while desperately clinging to it, the void left behind can be excruciating.
I stumbled into my late husband’s life by chance, brought together by fate one fateful night after college. We didn’t share a whirlwind romance, but rather built a life that exceeded my wildest dreams—one I never thought possible, given my upbringing. Despite our occasional arguments, we mostly laughed, talked, and lived a vibrant life together. I felt like I had scaled my personal mountain of dreams, so close to touching the stars.
Then, in an instant, that life was gone, and I fell hard. The truth I learned was that when you reach for your dreams, the higher you climb, the harder you fall; the bruises can linger for a lifetime. I discovered a twisted safety in staying at the bottom of my dream mountain. It’s a place where you can’t lose or get hurt.
Since that fall, I’ve been clawing my way back up. Occasionally, I catch glimpses of hope and joy, but I remain cautious, keeping my feet planted firmly below the heights where risk looms. Everything feels so delicate now, almost as if it could shatter at any moment.
Yet, every time I think of that email, I’m flooded with a joy and hope that feels almost overwhelming. Despite my fears, I find myself scaling that mountain of dreams once more. And I can’t help but recall another lesson from two years ago—the quieter one, yet just as important.
Sometimes, we don’t receive a second chance to confront our fears. It’s okay to pause and focus on survival, which can be challenging enough. However, more often than not, pursuing that dream allows you to touch the starlight, even if just briefly. That fleeting moment can be everything, giving you the strength to rise again if you fall.
The truth is, I’m terrified of celebrating this dream realized because it makes it real. It signifies that I’ve climbed to a height where a fall would hurt. I already bear scars from my previous fall. However, I also know that if I do fall again, I will rise once more. And that realization alone is worth celebrating.
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In conclusion, while the fear of celebration lingers, the hope of new beginnings and the possibility of touching the stars again beckon.