I’ve just told my daughter the cast list for her final play in elementary school. Her role is small.
“I didn’t do a good job,” she tells me. Her head is in my lap. My left arm hugs her chest, and her legs dangle off the couch edge. “I’m not good enough. This was my last chance.”
Her tears flow faster.
I know exactly how she feels.
“Well, that’s not true.” I squeeze her closer and ask her sister to grab a paper towel because I forgot to buy Kleenex. “Listen, you can be upset and cry as long as you want. It’s totally normal to feel disappointed when you do something brave and it doesn’t work out. But you know what I’ve learned? You can’t let disappointment define anything about who you are or what you’re good at.”
“But I’m not good at anything,” she wails. “There’s nothing special about me.”
It’s like looking in a mirror.
I pause, wishing for magic words to fix her heartbreak. But I’m her mom, not a fairy godmother, and rejection is part of real life. What I can do is tell her what I see and hope it casts a spell anyway.
“Honey, you have lots of gifts. Everybody does. But our society isn’t really set up to recognize that. Everything seems to be a competition. And a lot of people have gifts that aren’t as obvious on the outside but really important.”
“Like what?”
“Do you know how tender-hearted you are? I see how you are with our cats, how you love them and whisper to them every night. I don’t even do that. When you’re a vet someday, you’re going to know exactly what to say to comfort the little boys and girls who bring their sick pets to you.”
I watch her absorb my words. We’re both Libras, and sometimes it’s easier to see ourselves through the lens of relationships. Especially with those who love us and we know it. My daughter’s breathing returns to normal, her tears slowing. But she’s still sad.
“You know what?” I tell her. “The fact you’re feeling this way, maybe it’s trying to tell you something. If being in plays is really important to you, you can do things to get better, get more experience. You can take more voice lessons if you want, and we can sign you up for more theatre camps next summer. Sometimes you just need more practice.”
***
I’ve been giving myself the same pep talk since Wednesday. That’s when I received a particularly devastating “no” on the path to publishing my book. In the parking lot of my law firm that morning, I couldn’t stop crying. I drove home to work on my couch instead, grateful for a part-time job that affords me flexibility.
I also tried to record a reel on Instagram—twice. But neither one captured the sound of me crying through my words (a variation of what my daughter says above). You know what’s weird? In between, my non-charged test reel recorded fine. I took this as a sign to stop trying to share.
Now I’m grateful the ache of that moment was not preserved, not because I’m embarrassed, but because it prompted me to move through my pain offline, through conversations with my best friend and my husband.
Want to hear something ick?
A tiny part of me regretted the missed opportunity.
The fact is, my super vulnerable social media posts have more reach, more engagement. As my query rejections pile up despite compliments about my writing, it’s obvious my small platform is a significant hurdle. A week ago, I was encouraged to hire social media help to get my follower count from just under 4,000 to at least 5,000—to increase the likelihood of securing an agent.
That’s not going to happen because a) I don’t have a budget for it, and b) I prefer organic growth.
It’s gross this is how our system works. I feel gross when I play into it. But I really want traditional publishing for my book because of the distribution network. My biggest challenge right now is maintaining faith I can get there without sacrificing my integrity, intuition, and alignment.
It's hard. I’m confronting crappy beliefs about myself that I didn’t know I still had.
During a recent meditation, I became a snake inside a cave. The way out required me to enter water flowing in the rock bed and back up to the earth’s surface again. I felt myself shedding old snakeskin and merging to become one with the river itself.
During a different vision, I begged my spiritual support team to show me the way forward. How can my book find a home in the world? This time, I perceived water (again, me) trickling through tight-knit rocks.
Water knows the way back to the ocean. It’s moving even when the flow is small.
I believe in my book. I believe in the messages I share from my otherworldly friends and in the power of intimate storytelling as a tool to encourage each other’s pursuit of answers to life’s big questions: Why are we here? Where do we fit? How can we access help from the beyond? What can we do with it?
Right now, my water is resting in a pool, waiting for the next channel to reveal itself.
In the meantime, I’m taking the advice I gave my daughter and practicing my craft. Wordsmithing makes me happy, makes me feel like me.
What are you moving through? What’s helping you? I’d love to hear in the comments.
With love,
P.S. I’ve got a number of upcoming events this fall and a retreat update (save the date for January 19-21, 2024). I’m also finalizing details for a local monthly community circle. More soon.
What a beautiful mom you are to your sweet daughter. This really touched me. And I hope your book finds its way to exactly where it is meant to be. I look forward to reading it.
Still praying for your book Kara!