I learned that I had a gift for writing in college, but I never took it seriously because I thought anyone who was a prolific reader would automatically be a good writer. I didn’t realize then that loving books and shaping sentences are two different kinds of magic. One is absorption; the other is creation. I thought I was just doing what readers do—thinking, noticing, responding—when in truth I was already building worlds on the page without naming it. I mistook instinct for accident and talent for coincidence, and because of that, I let the gift sit quietly in the corner, waiting for me to grow into the confidence to claim it.

But in college, the professors gushed about how great my writing was. Still, I waved it off like a compliment meant for someone else, something nice but not binding. I treated their praise the way you treat a weather report—interesting, but not something you plan your life around. I didn’t see it as a call, just commentary.

I kept telling myself I was only good because I read so much, because I’d absorbed enough voices to sound competent. I didn’t yet understand that influence isn’t imitation and that voice isn’t borrowed—it’s revealed. I was already doing the hard part without admitting it: thinking on the page, taking emotional risks, telling my truth even if it sounded twisted. But self-belief lagged behind ability, dragging its feet like it had better places to be.

So I thanked them, smiled, turned in the papers, and kept it moving. I let the moment pass because claiming the gift would’ve meant responsibility. It would’ve meant choosing the page again and again, even when it didn’t love me back. Back then, I wasn’t ready to accept that kind of calling. The words knew before I did.

They waited patiently while I lived other lives. While I worked jobs, raised children, paid bills, survived heartbreaks, buried people, healed from things I didn’t know had names. All that time, the words sat in the corner like an old auntie at a family reunion, watching, knowing I’d eventually come back to the table.

And when I finally did, older and softer in some places, sharper in others, they welcomed me like I’d never left. No scolding. No “I told you so.” Just an open page and a whisper: Now we begin.

Because some callings don’t expire. They just wait until you’re ready to carry them.