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Writing my first book has stirred something in me that I can’t quite put into one word. It’s a mix of emotions that rise and fall, overlap and collide, each one reminding me that this moment is bigger than the pages I’m creating.

There is pride — a deep, quiet pride in what I’m doing and who I’m becoming. For years, this dream lived in the background of my life, waiting for the right season, the right breath, the right version of me. Now I’m here, actually doing it, shaping something real out of the stories that have lived inside me for so long.

There is exhilaration, the kind that makes my heart race when I realize I’m truly writing a book. Not thinking about it. Not wishing for it. Not promising myself “one day.” I’m doing it now. Every sentence feels like a step toward the life I’ve always imagined.

There is peace, too — a peace that comes from knowing how much I’ve healed to even be able to write this story. This book touches wounds I once carried quietly, wounds I didn’t always have the language for. To write from a place of healing instead of hurt feels like a victory all its own.

And then there is joy — the joy of knowing that my words might bring someone else comfort. That someone, somewhere, might read my story and feel less alone in their suffering. That they might see themselves in my characters and realize they, too, can make it through whatever they’re facing.

There is happiness in the thought of giving readers the gift of being seen. Truly seen. Not judged, not fixed, not explained — just understood. That is the kind of writing that changed me growing up, and it’s the kind of writing I hope to offer now.

This is my craft.
This is my joy.
This is my love.

Writing this book feels like stepping into the truest version of myself — the one who has always been here, waiting for me to make space for her. And now that I have, I don’t plan on letting her go.

— Leigh C. Mitchell