The Magic of Looking Back

So much of what I write these days centers on personal growth and learning from the past, but growth and change depend greatly on trusting yourself and finding confidence in who you are. And I think sometimes we drive too hard toward the future.

Maybe it's because the past often comes with shame. Looking back, we focus on the string of mistakes, and we haunt our present selves with the things we should've done but didn't—or the things we shouldn't have done but did anyway. Too often, we believe that examining the past must mean accepting the regret.

Maybe for you, the past comes with anxiety. It's a list of all the things you wish you'd done, or wish you'd done sooner. Or better. It fills the present with pressure and the future with fear. But what if your personal reflection of the past is only a teacher preparing the present you for what the future you might be proud of? What if the lessons from the past are really just lessons for the future?

Last week, I wrote about what it's like to dig back into The Selkie Trilogy so long after it began. I've been a writer all my life, but that first novel was the first story I'd ever finished...so imagine the joy of completion when I published it, promoted it, and began to watch the sales roll in. Imagine the surprise when I realized the story wasn't truly finished at all, but was only the beginning of a grand adventure for Annie and Malik. Imagine the devastation of life hitting hard and having to watch that series fall, unfinished, by the wayside.

Today I'd like to share the absolute wake-up-early excitement that settles fresh every morning, in the place where rewriting a novel and rediscovering old work come together.

When I first came back to writing, I was expecting to notice creative growth because even when I wasn't publishing, I was still writing. Little scenes and snippets of dialogue. Occasional ideas for characters or plots. Blog posts I didn't share, poems I scribbled in the quiet moments of emotional turmoil. Devotionals and journals no one has ever seen.

My writing journey didn't end just because my author journey got stuck on pause, and in the years of public silence, I was privately becoming a better writer.

And then I went digging through The Freedom Series. I revised and expanded Fighting For Freedom, taking notes along the way, preparing to write Still Fighting For Freedom. And there were so many times when I sat alone during that process, face to face with my own growth as a writer. Not because the original version wasn't good enough or because I was no longer proud of it, but because I could see where my style had shifted and my technique had matured.

With the Freedom Series now complete, the next step is to finish the Selkie Trilogy, which will begin with Selkie's second edition, follow with Selkie II's second edition, and then wrap with Selkie III's debut. And what I'm noticing most vividly in this walk through these books is how they boost my creative confidence.

Are there scenes I'm rewriting? Absolutely. Is there dialogue that makes me cringe? For sure. But oh, the bones of this story, you guys. The nod to ancient Selkie folklore is so solid. The connective chemistry of the character cast is undeniable. The foreshadowing is on point. The curiosity and suspense are everything I would have wanted them to be.

There was a moment when I sat back and stared at the screen, wondering if maybe this was evidence that I hadn't grown at all, after all. That maybe fifteen years ago, I was already as good as I was going to get. And I'll be honest, I kind of psyched myself out. What if I can't live up to this when it comes time for the third book, when the whole story depends on strong world-building? What if young me had some kind of skill or ability that faded over time, like the red in my hair as it shifts toward streaks of silver?

The thing about true courage is that it's open.

So I talked with a friend and I put it all on the table. The shame I felt over versions of past-me who couldn't juggle a decade of crisis and open discouragement while writing anyway. The fear of a future-me who couldn't live up to the hype present-me was trying to rebuild.

And this friend looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Stop it. Look at what you did back then." They said, "Look at what you carried. When the seed of writing was planted in dead soil and utterly starved for nutrients, look how you watered it."

And they were right. Because in early mornings when the sun hadn't risen yet, I was pouring words onto paper. Still practicing my craft in small ways, even when big things didn't seem possible. In late afternoons when the sun beat down and the heat felt unbearable, I was there, shading precious growth in stolen moments with my phone in my hand, fertilizing not only a dream but a set of skills I still hoped would bloom.

The plant, once sprouted, cannot help but look different from the seed it sprouted from. And yes, sometimes plants need change. We move them, we shade them, we warm them, we prune them, all in the hope of shaping something to be proud of.

In my home, there are currently five large plants—or six, depending on how you look at it. One of them is a pair of miniature pepper plants that grew by accident. A spinach seed failed, but in the fertile compost this pair of peppers sprouted with no one's permission, simply doing what seeds are meant to do. And while I grieved the spinach failure, I'm still celebrating the peppers almost two years later.

Another is a lemon sapling grown from a grocery store lemon seed, a nearly three-year-old experiment that lives in an artificially sunny corner of my office. I don't know if I will ever make lemonade from its fruit because I've never grown a tree before, and I have no idea what I'm doing...but it's two feet tall and its reedy little trunk is finally starting to branch. When I look for evidence of growth and success, it's there in the baby leaves slowly opening. It's there in mature leaves covered in waxy shine. And if I cut one of those leaves and crush it, success wafts from the mortar in shades of citrus.

My daughter is like that (both of them actually, but only one lives at home now), too. Fed and watered and carefully nurtured to maturity, my youngest is approaching eighteen years old. She's thinking of college and career choices and what it will be like to have what she calls, "adult money." She thinks of learning to drive and finding a partner and someday creating a home of her own, and I can't cut leaves from her branches. But when I look for evidence of growth and success, I see it in her brilliance. I see it in the way she works so hard to overcome the limitations of Autism. I see it in her concern, not only for her own future, but in her gratitude and concern for mine.

And that fifth—or sixth, depending on your pepper perspective? Well, I guess that plant is me.

*****

My point is, I'm still growing too. And while it's true that sometimes we look backward because we're stuck, sometimes we look backward because we've finally grown enough to appreciate what we couldn't see before.

In the trauma of my childhood, I could never have predicted the rise of a strong and at-least-mostly confident woman. In the rebellion of my teen years, I'd have laughed at anyone who told me someday I'd be a faithful Christian giving her best to what she feels is God's purpose for her life.

And in the early days of my walk as a writer, even when I could imagine a fanciful picture of a shelf full of books with my name on them...I would never have pictured the life I'm leading now, with a head full of characters waiting to be brought to life and a collection of readers who began with the man who called me Scheherazade.

Looking back will always carry evidence of failure. It will always show us the steps we missed, the opportunities we ignored, and the effort we should have put in. But beneath those things, there will also be a buried treasure of potential growth. Those missed steps may have accidentally led us directly to where we needed to be. Perhaps those opportunities we didn't take advantage of left room for other opportunities we fell in love with. Perhaps the effort we didn't have the emotional energy for is still waiting there too, fully charged and prepared to launch us toward our futures.

And maybe that's why I think it's only in looking back bravely that we find what we need to move forward, and...

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