Now and then, I find myself wandering into the realm of what-ifs. I look back and think about the things I might have missed—those extraordinary milestones people often speak of. Extraordinary in their scale, boldness, impact, or the way they’re remembered.
But when I scan the contours of my own life, nothing leaps out as extraordinary. No major celebration. No daring adventure. No public achievement or sweeping cause. My days have always been—and still are—structured. Predictable. Routine.
And the more I live inside that routine, the more I drift toward wondering what could have been… if.
But then again, I write.
Writing has been the central activity of my life since I graduated from college. It may not be flashy, but it’s a major part of who I am. I didn’t always plan for it to be this way, but through small, gracious opportunities, writing became both discipline and refuge. And yet, if you ask any writer, they’ll tell you: writing rarely feels extraordinary. Not unless you’ve written a bestseller. Or at the very least, been published somewhere beyond your blog or email inbox.
Maybe just being published—especially in this country—counts as extraordinary.
Still, there’s a steadiness in the act itself. A consistency to the way I keep desiring, doing, and persisting to write. That rhythm—that stubborn, almost meditative presence of writing in my life—is the heartbeat of my days. It isn’t glamorous. But it’s where I feel most alive, where understanding flickers into clarity. Writing moments are small, quiet, but weighty. Sometimes, it feels as if I’m helping shift something in the world—even if just a little.
Most days, it means sitting alone for long stretches. First with pen and paper, now with my computer. Often anxious about choices. Making mistakes, realizing them, regretting some, letting others go. This is part of the writing life. And strangely, it’s also what makes it extraordinary: the sheer amount of time spent thinking and reflecting quietly affirms that this life is worth living.
Progress is slow. Publication, even slower
But there’s something deeply fulfilling about thinking hard about a single idea—shaping it, doubting it, challenging it, then moving it forward, even a few lines at a time. Will my work ever make waves? I’ve stopped asking. That question, I’ve come to realize, is beside the point.
There are evenings when I stare at my screen and wonder: is this it? So what if I can write? What do I have to show for it? A folder of half-finished drafts? A blinking cursor? A cluttered desk and a dozen tabs open?
And yet, I keep going.
I don’t have a breakthrough book or an award-worthy story. But I’m starting to believe that this writing routine—the one I’ve practiced quietly for years—might be more extraordinary than I once thought. Not because it’s dramatic. But because it’s real. Because it’s steady. Because it’s full of care.
I used to think extraordinary meant once-in-a-lifetime. Now I think it can mean showing up every day with purpose, even for small, quiet tasks. Even for words that no one may read.
I’m keeping the rhythm.
A blog post. A personal essay. A newsletter draft. None of this is easy. But I like doing it. And maybe that’s what makes it extraordinary. How strange, and lovely, that simply putting words on a page makes me smile.
So I keep showing up. I keep piling pages onto pages of drafts that may never be published. I have poems that might one day find their way into a personal anthology—Volume 2, perhaps.
I’m performing my extraordinary life in circular motion—looping back, writing again, making meaning from the mundane. Extraordinary because it keeps going. Extraordinary because I am enjoying it to the fullest.
