There's something nobody really tells you about writing a book. Writing it is only the beginning.
For months, I've been pouring my heart into Living in the And. I've written about faith and doubt, grief and joy, failure and redemption. I've revisited experiences I thought I'd made peace with and discovered a few I apparently hadn't. I've laughed at myself, cried over memories, and occasionally wondered what on earth possessed me to think publishing a book was a good idea in the first place.
And now it's out there. People are buying it. They're receiving their copies in the mail. They're opening the covers and reading words that, until very recently, existed mostly between me and my computer screen. And I'm discovering something rather unsettling. It's one thing to write your story. It's another thing entirely to let someone else read it.
Because when you're writing, you're in control. You decide which stories to tell, which memories to revisit, and how much of yourself you're willing to reveal. You can rewrite a sentence a hundred times until it says precisely what you mean. You can delete an entire chapter if it feels too vulnerable. You can close your laptop and walk away. But once someone opens the book, the story begins to live somewhere outside of you. And that's terrifying.
Yesterday, I had the opportunity to share several chapters with my sisters. Of all the people who might read this book, their reactions were among the ones I was most nervous about. Not because I doubted their love, but because some of what I've written involves our childhood and difficult experiences with our mom. These are memories that belong to a shared history, even though each of us experienced that history in our own way.
I knew what those experiences meant to me. I knew how they had shaped my life, my relationships, my understanding of myself, and even my relationship with God. What I didn't know was how my sisters would feel hearing me tell those stories. And so I shared them.
We talked for hours. We remembered things. We listened to one another. We revisited some difficult places. And through it all, my sisters were gracious, encouraging, supportive, and loving. I cannot adequately describe the relief I felt. Not because they agreed with every word or remembered every moment exactly as I did. That's not what I needed. I needed to know that I could share the difficult parts of my story and still be loved. And yesterday, I was reminded that I could.
I've been thinking about that conversation ever since, particularly about the complicated relationship between truth and memory. Families are interesting that way, aren't they? We can grow up in the same house, sit around the same dinner table, experience the same events, and somehow walk away carrying very different versions of what happened. None of us sees the entire picture. We see what we experienced, what we understood at the time, and what we've come to understand in the years since.
That doesn't necessarily make one person's memories right and another person's wrong. It makes us human. And perhaps one of the greatest acts of love we can offer another person is the willingness to listen to their experience without immediately feeling the need to defend our own. I've had to learn that lesson from both sides.
There are relationships in my life that remain unfinished. People I've hurt. People who have hurt me. Conversations I've wished we could have and apologies I've offered without knowing whether they'll ever be accepted. I've come to understand that reconciliation isn't something we can demand, no matter how sincere our intentions might be. We can apologize. We can acknowledge the harm we've caused. We can work to become better people. We can extend an invitation to rebuild what has been broken. But we cannot require another person to accept that invitation. And that's hard, especially when we love them.
I've been reminded recently that everyone is traveling their own emotional, spiritual, and sometimes therapeutic journey. (And heaven knows I've logged a few miles on THAT particular road. HA!) What feels like the right time for one person may not be the right time for another. Healing doesn't follow a universal schedule, and forgiveness isn't something we earn simply because we're finally ready to receive it. Sometimes love means reaching out. Sometimes love means stepping back. And sometimes love means leaving the door open without standing in the doorway waiting for someone to walk through it.
I think that's part of what makes sharing this book so vulnerable. I'm not just inviting strangers into my experiences. I'm inviting people who know me, people who love me, people who remember me differently, and perhaps even people I've disappointed or hurt. Some may find comfort in these pages. Others may find themselves wrestling with what I've written. And I have to be willing to allow that.
I've received some incredibly kind messages already from people who have begun reading. They've described the writing as genuine, sincere, and moving. They've told me they're intrigued and excited to continue. Every message has been a gift, and I'm grateful beyond words. But I also know that not everyone will love this book. Some people may disagree with my conclusions. Some may question my memories or interpretations. Some may dislike the way I've chosen to tell certain stories. Some might even decide that my willingness to be vulnerable gives them permission to criticize my character.
I hope that doesn't happen, of course. Nobody particularly enjoys being misunderstood or criticized. But I also know that publishing a deeply personal book means accepting the possibility that people will have deeply personal reactions to it. And they're allowed to. Their responses don't have to determine the value of my experience, just as my experience doesn't invalidate theirs.
I've spent a great deal of my life worrying about what other people think of me. Whether I've disappointed someone. Whether I've said the wrong thing. Whether I've done enough, been enough, or somehow managed to fail another test I didn't even realize I was taking. And I'm tired of allowing that fear to steal the joy from things that deserve to be celebrated.
Because here's something else I've been thinking about this week. I wrote a book. An actual book. With chapters and a cover and an ISBN and everything! HA!
There were plenty of moments along the way when I wondered whether I'd ever finish it. There were moments when the writing was emotionally exhausting, moments when I questioned whether anyone would care about what I had to say, and moments when I wondered if I was making an enormous mistake by sharing so much of myself. But I kept going. I wrote. I revised. I rewrote. I questioned. I prayed. I listened to feedback. I made changes. I kept working until the story I wanted to tell became the book I could finally hold in my hands. And now, here we are.
I don't know what happens next. I don't know how many copies will sell. I don't know whether this book will reach hundreds of people or thousands. I don't know whether someone will read it and feel a little less alone, or whether it will open doors I haven't even imagined yet. I certainly don't know how every person who reads it will respond. But for once, I'm trying not to let all those unknowns distract me from what I already know.
I did something I set out to do. I finished something that mattered to me. I told my story as truthfully and thoughtfully as I knew how. And I'm proud of that.
Not arrogantly proud. Not the kind of pride that insists I've written something extraordinary or that everyone ought to read it. Just the quiet, deeply satisfying pride that comes from looking at something you've worked incredibly hard to accomplish and allowing yourself to say, "Well done."
I think we need more of those moments in our lives. We're so quick to move on to the next goal, the next responsibility, the next problem that needs solving. We finish something difficult and immediately start worrying about whether it was good enough, whether anyone noticed, or what we're supposed to do next. Sometimes we don't even give ourselves permission to celebrate because there are still so many other things in our lives that haven't worked out the way we'd hoped. But why should the unfinished parts of our lives prevent us from celebrating the beautiful things happening right in front of us?
My relationships aren't all healed. My future isn't entirely clear. I still have questions about where my life is going and what God might be preparing me for. There are still people I miss, things I regret, and prayers I'm waiting to see answered. AND I wrote a book. AND my sisters listened to my story with love. AND people are beginning to read words I once wondered whether I had the courage to share. AND next Tuesday, I'll gather with people I love to celebrate something that once existed only as an idea.
All of those things can be true at the same time. That's the beauty of living in the And.
I've come to believe that grace isn't always found in the grand moments when everything is finally resolved. Sometimes grace looks like a conversation with your sisters that lasts for hours. Sometimes it looks like an encouraging message from someone who's just opened your book. Sometimes it's the hope that a relationship might someday be restored, even when you have no idea when or how. And sometimes grace is simply allowing yourself to be happy about something good without feeling guilty that everything else isn't perfect.
So today, I'm choosing to celebrate. I'm choosing gratitude for the people who have encouraged me, supported me, prayed for me, challenged me, and loved me through this process. I'm choosing to appreciate the accomplishment instead of immediately worrying about its reception. I'm choosing to believe that the value of telling my story isn't measured solely by how other people respond to it. And I'm choosing to leave room for whatever comes next.
Because the truth is, I didn't write Living in the And because I had finally figured everything out. I wrote it because I haven't. I wrote it because I'm still learning how to live faithfully in the middle of uncertainty, how to recognize God's hand in the unfinished places, and how to believe that grace is available even when the answers aren't.
And now, as other people begin reading my story, I find myself right back in that familiar place. Hopeful and afraid. Proud and vulnerable. Grateful for what's happened and uncertain about what comes next. Still learning. Still growing. Still becoming.
Still living in the And.
And today? Today, that's more than enough.
