When I Finally Put It Down

The other day I was driving when a wave of gratitude came over me so unexpectedly that it nearly brought me to tears. There was no dramatic announcement. No milestone that suddenly changed everything. In fact, I was simply driving home. But somewhere along that familiar stretch of road, I realized something that had been quietly changing for months. For the first time in a very long time, this journey feels different.

For years, pursuing this book felt like a struggle. I'm not talking about the writing itself. Ironically, writing has always been one of the places where I have felt most connected to that sense of flow. Anyone who writes regularly knows the feeling. Hours disappear. The outside world falls away. The story takes over and, for a little while, you're no longer forcing anything. You're simply following the current wherever it leads.

The writing was never where I felt stuck. The resistance lived everywhere around it. It lived in the waiting, the uncertainty, the submissions, the rejections, and the wondering whether anyone would ever read the story that had become so important to me. It lived in the space between creating something and releasing it into the world. The work itself brought joy. What came afterward often felt heavy. That distinction took me years to understand.

Looking back, I think I spent a lot of years carrying the dream on my shoulders. Not just working toward it, but carrying it. Anyone who has held onto something long enough knows the difference.

Over the years, different people offered me remarkably similar advice. One was a psychic. Another was a Reiki practitioner. Friends who knew me well said much the same thing in their own words. Let it go. Put it down. Trust. I listened, nodded, and thought I understood. The truth is, I didn't. Not really.

Understanding something intellectually and experiencing it are two very different things.

Last year, I reached a point where I was prepared to walk away from the dream of ever seeing Raising Artemis published. Not because I stopped believing in the story. Not because I stopped loving it. I simply arrived at a place where I could finally say, honestly and without reservation, that if it never happened, I would be okay. Disappointed? Certainly. Sad? Of course. But okay. The story had already given me gifts. The writing had already changed me. I no longer needed a particular outcome in order to justify the journey.

And that's when something shifted.

I can't explain exactly why. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was perspective. Maybe it was something spiritual. All I know is that the resistance that had accompanied the process for so long seemed to dissolve. The work didn't disappear. There was still plenty to do. There always is. But the energy around it shifted. Opportunities began appearing. Conversations unfolded. Doors opened. Instead of feeling like I was dragging something uphill, it felt as though I had finally stepped into the current.

The closest comparison I can make comes from basketball. Athletes know there are moments when the game slows down. You're no longer forcing anything. You stop overthinking. You trust your instincts, trust your teammates, and trust the work you've already done. Suddenly you see the court differently. The right pass appears. The opening develops. The game flows through you instead of against you. Those moments are impossible to manufacture, but when they happen, you know it.

Looking back, I realize writing and basketball have been trying to teach me the same lesson all along. Flow cannot be forced. It can only be entered. The harder you chase it, the more elusive it becomes. But when you trust the work, loosen your grip, and allow yourself to move with what is unfolding, something opens. The current finds you.

Lately, that's what this season of my life feels like. Not perfect. Not effortless. Not free from setbacks or uncertainty. Just aligned in a way I haven't experienced before. The work is still demanding, but it feels joyful. The opportunities that are appearing feel natural rather than forced. Even the conversations surrounding Raising Artemis seem to be unfolding with a grace that catches me by surprise.

Maybe that's the lesson I was meant to learn all along. Not that dreams come true when we stop caring about them, but that there is a difference between dedication and attachment. There is a difference between pursuing something wholeheartedly and believing our happiness depends upon whether it arrives. Sometimes the thing we've been gripping most tightly is the very thing we need to loosen our hold on.

As I begin preparing for the launch of Raising Artemis, what overwhelms me most isn't pride or even excitement. It's gratitude. Gratitude for the people who have appeared at exactly the right moments. Gratitude for the opportunities that arrived when I least expected them. Gratitude for the years that taught me patience. Most of all, gratitude for the realization that some things cannot be forced. They can only be nurtured, trusted, and allowed to arrive in their own time.

For most of my life, I thought the lesson was learning how to hold on. Lately, I've begun to wonder if the lesson was learning when to finally put something down.