I wish  I could say that I don’t struggle with the persistent fear that no one cares about my writing.

Everywhere I look online I’m being pointed at another article about how to market yourself, write engaging content, be productive, and ultimately somehow succeed.

But what my many recent feelings of failure have taught me is that I’m not exactly making it easy for myself.

I’ve chosen to write about something that few people talk about, let alone, read about. I’m not exactly engaging in witty concepts here. I write about trauma, illness, and chaos. I write about uncomfortable things. I write so that other people can see that at least one person cares about what is affecting them and wants to help.

Inviting people to a book signing I had a little while ago was especially challenging. How do you expect someone to make plans to spend the afternoon at a bookstore talking about trauma? It doesn’t make for light conversation. More than a few people had other, better, plans.

To be honest, since it’s been over three years since my first book released and I’ve had no tangible success, I thought about quitting.

I really did.

Very few people admit to reading my blog. Fewer people buy my books. Fewer people show up to events. But isn’t that the way it works? Doesn’t a lot of conquered failure equal success more than actual success?

See, going into this, I thought it was what GOD wanted me to do. Write. Bring awareness. Put myself out there.

But what it usually feels like it having a conversation no one wants to have, with an empty chair as my audience.

I’ve thought about all the angles. I know I’m not particularly funny. I don’t have the credentials to be seen as an authority. I’m not exactly viral-success-in-two-years-or-less material.

I don’t even own a cat anymore.

So I asked myself why I keep writing. Why do I sit at the computer and work on my next book. Why do I keep up a blog with a subject matter that is difficult to write? Why do I keep doing this thing I thought GOD wanted me to do if it seems like there’s no longevity in it for me?

Because in a room full of people sitting down I keep finding it hard to stay in my chair.

Who will say these things if I don’t?

Sure, I won’t ever be like those hair tutorial-couponing-mom blogging-click bait people who rake in ad revenue like a get rich quick scheme. I can’t make funny lists of pictures of greyhounds in scarves. I can’t really weigh in on the Trans-Pacific Trade Agreement (I really really tried to understand. I don’t). Nor can I, with any substance, give my remarks about the most recent celebrity beef.

I’m not writing about something that most people even want to think about. But no amount of Twitter followers or page subscriptions will make this any easier to digest:

We all have gnarly, unprocessed, trauma lurking in our hearts. Every single one of us. We deal with it at different times in different ways. Yet, despite how many of us are hurting, we somehow still feel alone when it hits us the hardest.

Unlike people who tell you not to cry and end up making you feel worse by trying to make you feel better, I’m not about to run out of the room. This blog will be right here, waiting for you, talking about scary things and reminding you that you can make it. Even if there’s only one person reading, consider it a gift then, written just for you when you needed to hear it.





photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/28729277@N03/3039015873″>Koi Fish</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/”>(license)</a>

abuse, advice, anxiety, C-PTSD, caregivers, Christianity, comfort, complex trauma, courage, Faith, God, healing, hope, invisible illness, Jesus, love, mental illness, PTSD, recovery