Last summer, my family and I took an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime trip. Once we returned, we resumed normal life, except that I could not ignore the urge to write. I wasn’t sure if it would be a short story (it definitely is not) or where I would go with it, but I started slowly typing out an outline and my thoughts in a Google doc. I would write after work, while traveling, in the middle of the night—whenever I could steal a spare moment from my otherwise hectic life.

A thousand words became two-thousand, and then more. Somehow, I’m now nearing 33,000 words, I’ve attended some writing workshops this spring, and I am taking a novel writing course this summer. Am I scared? Absolutely. Am I willing to shove my creative self down anymore? Absolutely not.

I have spent my entire life loving words, stories, and creativity. I had teachers beg me to consider writing or teaching, while I dutifully planned out what I thought was a careful path for stability and security straight through undergrad and into law school. I tried to do all the right things at the right times. I overachieved and yet never felt like I was enough. Perfectionism and imposter syndrome are hard habits to break. I was also so risk-adverse, I was willing to push my creativity and love of the arts aside for what I thought should be the end goal. Sacrificing myself, though, in the process was never worth it.

Due to some unprecedented circumstances this year so far beyond my control, I’ve had the opportunity to take a step back and self-reflect over the past two months. After recovering from significant stress, I’ve been able to reprioritize how I spend my time and work on this story that keeps pushing to be written, while I also write some smaller fiction and creative nonfiction along the way. It’s possible this may just be a detour, but my hope is that it is my next chapter.