I didn’t expect this part. I expected nerves. I expected vulnerability hangovers. I expected the quiet after launch where you refresh your phone a little too often and wonder if anyone noticed.
What I didn’t expect was the overwhelming kindness of messages, texts, emails, and notes that felt less like congratulations and more like thank you for telling this. People sharing pieces of their own stories. People saying they felt seen before they even turned the first page.
And if I’m honest, that’s where a different kind of fear crept in. It wasn’t the fear of being judged, the fear of backlash, or even the fear of criticism.
The fear that crept in was that maybe my story isn’t actually worth all of this, that maybe people are just being polite, and that maybe they’re just curious because we grew up in the same small town. That maybe they’re reading to see what names show up, what stories made it in, or what didn’t. That maybe I’m not really “an author,” just someone who happened to put words on paper.
Hello, imposter syndrome. Right on schedule.
There have been moments where I’ve stared at kind messages and thought, Are they sure this book matters? Moments where I’ve wondered if the excitement will fade once people realize this really is real life, and there isn’t necessarily a perfectly tied-up redemption story.
This book isn’t flashy, too scandal-driven, and it doesn’t promise answers to everything. It’s simply honest.
Perhaps that’s just what God keeps reminding me. My story doesn’t have to be extraordinary to be meaningful, and obedience doesn’t require a big platform, just a willing heart. Also that impact isn’t measured by how many people read it, but by how deeply it meets the right ones.
Every message I’ve received hasn’t felt nosy. It’s felt personal.
Like someone saying, “I needed this.”
Like someone saying, “Thank you for going first.”
Like someone saying, “Your story helped me believe mine might matter too.”
When I remember this suddenly the fear shifts. Not because it disappears, but because gratitude is louder.
Gratitude that God would use something so personal in a way I never could have orchestrated.
Gratitude that the story didn’t need to be bigger, louder, or more dramatic to be enough.
Gratitude that people aren’t asking for perfection; they’re responding to truth.
If this book does nothing more than help one person realize they can make it through whatever situation they are dealing with, or turns even one person to Jesus, then I don’t need to defend my story at all.
When fear tells me “who do you think you are?”, it was never telling the truth in the first place.
Fear is a liar.
Fear is a Liar 
Published by