Now and then,

I look back and think about the things I might have missed—those milestones people often speak of when they describe an extraordinary life. Extraordinary in scale, boldness, impact, or the way they are remembered.

But when I scan the contours of my life, nothing leaps out as extraordinary. No major leaps. No daring adventures. No public achievements or sweeping causes. My days have always been, and still are, structured. Predictable. Routine.

And the more I live inside that routine, the more I sometimes drift toward wondering what could have been… if.

But then again, I write

Writing has been the central activity of my life since I graduated from college. It may not be flashy, but it has become a major part of who I am. I did not always plan for it to be this way. Through small, gracious opportunities, writing became both discipline and refuge.

And now i have published a children’s book

Simply getting “Miguel, Miguel” published seemed like the kind of milestone that belonged to other people. But yes, here I am, holding a book that began as an idea four years ago and eventually found its way into the world.

And this September, there will be a book signing event.

It feels strange. This ordinary outcome of keeping at it, showing up, and staying with the process. Admittedly, I have always been a process-led gal, almost always okay with shrugging it all off once I reach the finish line.

While I am doing it, though, writing is extraordinarily tedious. Whatever I write—even this blog—can feel like bleeding. I am always wary of making mistakes and getting embarrassed. And always, writing is slow. Very slow.

So getting published is extraordinary

A children’s book, especially. It is one of the more difficult writing tasks I have ever taken on. Imagine putting yourself in the shoes of a seven-year-old. How difficult is that? Scary too, believe me. So this is what makes this moment special.

In fact, on my computer are many unfinished books. I imagine getting all those unfinished manuscripts onto a bookstand. I nag myself about them. So maybe this book is extraordinary because it allows that dream to live on.

September is my fiscal month. Somehow, every extraordinary turn in my life seems to happen in September. This feels extraordinary, too.

And then I circle back, loop again into the ordinary routine—discipline into meaning, the mundane into something worth keeping.

Just keep writing.

Because it is extraordinarily fun to simply be able to put words on a page.

Why this still makes me smile is extraordinary.