Who Will Read My Book?

(And Is My Story Even Worth Telling?)

You don’t want to write a book for attention. You want to write it because it won’t stop taking up space in your head.

It finds you in the shower.
While you’re driving.
In the middle of an ordinary Tuesday when you’re just trying to binge watch your favorite show…again.

The idea runs away with you. Demands your attention.

And then something more sinister knocks on the door.

It’s your good friend Doubt. And it is louder than a party of underaged kids on spring break. It demands to know:

Who will read my book?
Is my story even worth telling?
Why would anyone care about my life?

If you’ve ever wondered who will read your story — especially if you’re thinking about writing a memoir or a book about your life — you’re not alone.

But you may be asking the wrong question.

The better question isn’t, “Who will read this?” It’s, “Who will recognize themselves in what I’ve lived?”


Who Will Read My Book If I’m Not Famous?

One of the biggest fears people have when writing a memoir or personal book is “I’m not famous. Why would anyone read this?”

Most readers are not looking for celebrity. They’re looking for connection.

They don’t need your exact career path or life circumstances. They’re not searching for someone who built your company, survived your hardship, or lived your timeline. They’re looking for emotional recognition.

They don’t need your promotion and audience clapping moments. They need the time you sat in your car afterward and wondered if it would ever feel like enough.

They don’t need to have been there for your diagnosis. They need to connect with the fear that crept in when the room went quiet and your support had dissipated.

Instead of asking, “Will my book will sell?,” ask “Will anyone relate to this?”

If you’re honest they will.

With Book Ghostwriting & Story Development, this is often where our conversations begin — not with market size, but with emotional clarity.


Is My Story Worth Telling?

If you feel compelled to write, that compulsion matters.

Books don’t resonate because they’re dramatic. They resonate because they’re specific.

It’s the single glove on the side of the road after a horrific accident. The cheer that leaves your voice after a phone call that changed everything. The sound of the silence in your home after he left.

These moments become universal.

When you write with emotional precision, you stop trying to prove your story is important.

You simply tell the truth of it. And that truth is what makes a story worth reading.


Truth in Memoir: It’s Emotional, Not Literal

Another reason people hesitate to write a book about their life is fear of getting it wrong.

What if I don’t remember every detail?
What if someone disagrees with my version?
What if I can’t reconstruct everything perfectly?

Truth in memoir isn’t about recreating events like a legal document. It’s about emotional accuracy.

What did it feel like to be you in that moment? What did you believe then? What were you afraid of? What changed you?

When you write from emotional truth, you create something readers can step into.

And that’s what makes them stay.


The Moment I Knew Writing Could Do More

I remember the first time I felt what real connection on the page could do.

I fell in love with writing when I read A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway. There’s a scene where he describes a romantic interlude — her hair falling forward, creating a kind of tent around them. For a moment, they were hidden. Protected. Unimpacted by the world outside that small shelter.

I could see it.

But more than that — I could feel it.

It wasn’t just romance. It was safety. Intimacy. The illusion that love could pause chaos.

That scene didn’t just move me. It altered me.

It was the first time I understood that writing could do more than tell a story. It could narrate humanity.

That’s the kind of connection readers are looking for — even if they don’t know how to articulate it.


Aim for the Head Nod

When you’re writing a book — whether it’s memoir, leadership, or personal narrative — aim for this:

The nod.

The quiet moment when a reader reaches your sentence and thinks:

Yes. I’ve felt that.

They may not have lived your life. But they recognize the emotional terrain.

That nod is the real reason anyone reads something personal.


So Who Will Read Your Book?

Someone who has:

  • tried to be strong and gotten tired
  • started over and felt embarrassed
  • achieved something and still felt restless
  • lost something and struggled to name the grief
  • wondered if their story mattered

In other words:

Someone human.

Your reader is not a demographic category. (That’s marketing and it’s something we’ll address in the editing phase.)

Your reader is a person waiting for language.

And when you write honestly enough, clearly enough, bravely enough — they find you.

The right sentence can become shelter for someone you’ve never met.


If You’re Afraid to Start Writing

You don’t have to believe in the entire manuscript yet.

Start with one honest page.

If you’re wondering how to write a book about your life, begin with a moment you still feel in your body.

Write it cleanly.
Without performance.
Without trying to impress anyone.

Because sometimes a sentence can do what that scene in A Farewell to Arms did for me.

It can become a small, invisible shelter — a moment apart from the world.


Ready to Shape Your Story Strategically?

If you feel the pull to write but aren’t sure how to shape it into something powerful, that’s exactly where strategic storytelling begins.

This is the work I do through Book Ghostwriting & Story Development and Thought Leadership Ghostwriting — helping leaders, founders, and individuals translate lived experience into books and essays that connect deeply and endure.

If you’re ready to explore what your story could become, you can start the conversation here.


The Executive’s Guide to Not Oversharing

So, you want to write a book about what you’ve learned. You’re ready to move into thought leadership (or lock in the reputation you already have). But you also want to be real and help people understand who you are. You want to be you, not some bot writing a book.

And yes, it is possible to be honest without exposing a side of yourself that could alienate your audience.

But how do you do that?

Follow this framework.

The Strategic Storytelling Framework

The Strategic Storytelling Framework I use with all of my clients helps us sort through what’s a necessary part of the work and what is gratuitous oversharing. You want people to identify with you. You want to help them see you are more than a brilliant mind, funny person, or beautiful individual.

One of the easiest ways to prove that you’re not all “X” is to also show parts of your world that they may not realize. For instance, perhaps you’re Harvard educated. People make assumptions about you based on that fact like you split time in Hyannis Port and Delray dining on lobster, when in reality you ate friend bologna sandwiches on a TV tray somewhere in middle America.

These “dualities,” these unexpected challenges to stereotypes, make people (and their stories) more interesting. And that helps your audience feel invested in your story, which is essential if you want them to spend 150+ pages with you.

But just how forthright should you be about your past and the people in it? That depends and that’s where the Strategic Storytelling Framework comes in.

Who Are You Writing This For and Why?

Who’s your audience? It is other Gen Xers who now lead companies and they will feel like 15 year olds? Then great go for it. But if you’re writing this book to become a well-known thought leader in macroeconomics and you’re hoping to get on the speaking circuit, maybe that story doesn’t belong. Or maybe the lesson needs to be more poignant.

If the story fits your audience, if it’s something they’ll appreciate AND if it fits your objectives (like you’re telling a story of redemption where you used to abuse alcohol and you’ve learned from that), go for it. If you’re hoping to be invited to an economic forecast based on the knowledge expressed in your book, leave the binge drinking to a minimum.

Does It Fit Your Tone and Personal Brand?

This is really an extension of the audience question. For example, my writing (not my ghostwriting) tends to be snarky and irreverent. People who read my books know this. They expect it. If you have the reputation as a rebel CEO, a little unpredictable, wild stories might fit your tone and your mission. If however, you’re viewed as a serious introvert with a love of numbers and grammar precision that would make high school English teachers swoon, telling raucous stories in an informal tone, may send those closest to you over the edge (or telling you to fire your ghostwriter).

Unless this project is a direct (purposeful) contradiction to everything you’ve put out there building your personal brand, you should stick with the you people know.

Is This Your Legacy?

Do you plan on this book being one of many or will this be your magnum opus? Do you intend this to be your legacy? Your manifesto? Answering this question will help you understand what belongs in there and what doesn’t.

What’s Your Message?

Whether you’re writing a memoir or a leadership book, there’s an underlying theme behind your project. Themes might include:

  • Redemption
  • Overcoming addiction
  • Selling to everyone (okay, this is more of a topic)
  • Breaking the mold
  • Loving your job and following your passion

When you know what you’re trying to convey, you can easily sort through stories and decide which ones belong and which ones don’t. Even if you’re writing a business book, you might still include stories from your life but you’ll want them to tie into your messaging.

A Final Word About Privacy and Sharing

A big question executives I work with have is about privacy. What should I share and what should I leave out? When you start seeing your project through a strategic storytelling lens, it becomes easier to protect your dignity as well as that of those in your life, without losing depth and connection.

When you decide to get vulnerable with your audience, it should fit your goals for the writing project, as well as your personal brand (again, unless you’re combatting the brand itself and this is your swan song), and sharpen your messaging, not undermine it.

Once you answer these questions, write them down. Keep them beside you during the project and if you come across a lesson or story you want to share, ask yourself whether it fits the framework.

Or hire a ghostwriter and let them worry about it.

We’re in the Company of Our Ancestors

I’m writing this post on Thanksgiving Day from Kauai, Hawaii. I’ve been here for two days but still have to double-check the spelling every time I key it. Using that many vowels doesn’t come naturally for me.

The resort I’m staying in is a slice of paradise–much as you would expect. I have yet to see an ugly part of this island that is referred to as the “Garden Island” for its lush greenery. Even if you haven’t visited, you’ve likely seen it in movies like Jurassic Park or the opening waterfall scene of the cult classic TV show Fantasy Island (the original, not these try-hard remakes).

Within a stone’s through of my balcony is a dense clump of tropical beauty, a tangle of bougainvillea, feathery evergreens, sea plums, and the like. It gives visual interest to the rolling green expanse and the ribbon of winding concrete trails through the resort.

But the most interesting thing about the plant clusters are the signs erected in front of them.

It struck me as both surprising and strangely grounding. In places like Florida, development often means quietly relocating human remains. Here, the resort was built around them.

Maybe it’s not what we’d call a peaceful resting place, but what can you do when the living and the dead want an ocean view?

I’m not making light of it. If anything, it reminded me how often we live in the shadows — or the company — of those who came before us. Our ancestors shape more of who we are than we tend to acknowledge. Some traits are rooted in DNA, not upbringing. Whether you lean introverted or extroverted, for example, has more to do with inheritance than environment.

James Clear referenced several of these patterns in Atomic Habits, and many surprised me:

  • How many hours you tend to spend watching television
  • Your likelihood to marry or divorce
  • Your tendency to get addicted to drugs, alcohol, or nicotine
  • How obedient or rebellious you are when facing authority
  • How vulnerable or resistant you are to stressful events
  • How proactive or reactive you tend to be
  • How captivated or bored you feel during sensory experiences (like attending a concert)

And then there are the parts shaped by nurture: what we value, what we fear, what we define as success. These influences don’t control us, but they do set a frame — a kind of narrative scaffolding — we either accept or work hard to dismantle.

Which is why, when we tell our own story, we’re also telling the story of our ancestors. Their decisions, struggles, triumphs, and limitations course through us.

They show up in our choices, our emotional reflexes, and the biases we carry into adulthood.

Most of us don’t live on land where our ancestors are buried. But they’re present nonetheless.

They are the hidden ingredients in what it was that made us. They are the herbs you can’t quite taste but differentiates our recipe from another.

Bringing that awareness into a memoir or book can be the difference between a good story and a great one. When we work together, part of our process is uncovering those quiet influences — the inherited threads that shape the arc of a life.

If you’re ready to explore the deeper layers of your story, I’d be honored to help you shape them into something lasting.

Book some time today and we can talk about it.

Aloha.

How to Turn a Big Idea Into Publishable Insight

You’re excited. You’re finally ready to write that book. But before you do, let’s break down if your big idea has any “publishable” insight to make it a real success story.

Most people don’t struggle with ideas.

They struggle with focus.

They want to tell their story but they gush it like a drunk friend, meandering around and not getting to the point for hours.

That’s no way to win a big publishing contract.

If you’re a leader, founder, or survivor of something hard, you probably carry a dozen book-worthy concepts around in your head.

Do any of these sound like you?

I want to write about resilience.

I have a new way of thinking about leadership.

I’ve learned so much from my business journey. It could help people.

Those are important seeds. But they’re not yet what an agent, editor, or reader is looking for.

The gap between a “big idea” and a “publishable insight” is where a lot of manuscripts stall, fizzle, or never quite land.

Let’s close that gap.

Big Idea vs. Publishable Insight

A big idea is expansive. It sounds like:

  • “Leadership needs to change.”
  • “Stories matter in business.”
  • “We don’t talk about grief honestly enough.”

It’s true, meaningful, and probably connected to years of experience but it’s huge. It’s a Great Lake of content. It’s vast and it may be deep, but it’s also too much of those things.

A “publishable insight” is narrower and sharper.

It sounds like:

  • “Most leaders try to inspire with strategy decks. The ones people remember inspire with one defining story.”
  • “Most leaders communicate in bullet points. The ones who stick in people’s minds communicate in moments and images.”
  • “We don’t heal from grief by ‘moving on.’ We heal by finding a story we can live with.”

See the difference?

A big idea is a cloud.

A publishable insight is a beam of light shining through that cloud and hitting one specific thing.

Publishable writing is built around beams, not clouds. You want someone to be able to sum up the general concept of your book and the highlights. You want them to recognize the differentiator so they can connect with it.

If you’ve ever used a magnifying glass to start a fire, you know that the beam of light has to be concentrated to start the blaze and you get there by holding the glass close to the pavement. Holding the magnifying glass far away does nothing to create that sizzle.

So how do you get to that concentrated moment of fire?

This is how I walk my clients through it.

Step 1: Start with the Reader’s Moment, Not Your Concept

When your idea is big, it’s tempting to start at 30,000 feet.

Instead, start here:

“Where is my reader sitting when this idea actually matters?”

Are they:

  • Staring at a blank slide the night before a board meeting?
  • Holding a resignation letter they’re not sure they should send?
  • Sitting in a quiet house after a diagnosis, wondering what happens next?

A big idea becomes publishable the moment it meets a specific moment of need.

Ask yourself:

1. What is my reader trying to do that isn’t working?

2. What belief or assumption is keeping them stuck?

3. What is the one shift in perspective I can offer that would change their next decision?

Your answer to #3 is the seed of a publishable insight.

Step 2: Articulate Your “for who / so that” Sentence

If your idea can’t survive a single, clear sentence, it won’t survive a proposal, let alone a book.

Use this simple test:

“This is a book/article about X for Y so they can Z.”

Examples:

  • “This is a book about storytelling as a leadership tool for founders and executives so they can earn trust and move people to act without burning them out.”
  • “This is an article about failure for mid-career leaders so they can turn a public setback into a credible story instead of a quiet shame.”
  • “This is a memoir about caregiving for adult children of aging parents so they can feel less alone and make decisions without constant guilt.”

I often hear, “My story is for everyone.”

Is it?

Is it for sports fanatics? Grieving parents? Middle-schoolers? People working in a factory in a town where the factory is the biggest employer and they just announced a shutdown?

Could all of those people enjoy your book? Sure, especially if you’re funny and they need a laugh or an escape.

But there are probably a few groups of people out there that once they read the subtitle or book jacket, they immediately look for the way to hand you their money.

We want those people. And once we know who they are, we’re going to write specifically for them.

If you can’t fill in those blanks with specifics yet, your idea is still in “cloud” form.

Stay with the concept until it feels almost too specific. That’s where traction lives.

Step 3: Find the Question Your Book Is Really Answering

Big ideas like to stay declarative:

  • “Stories matter.”
  • “Mindset matters.”
  • “Resilience matters.”

Publishable insights answer a question your reader is already asking, often quietly.

Try reframing your idea as a question:

  • “How do I lead people through change when I’m not sure I believe the vision yet myself?”
  • “How do I tell my story without oversharing or sounding self-centered?”
  • “How do I turn what happened to me into something useful for other people?”

Once you have the core question, your structure becomes much clearer:

Your chapters or sections are the honest attempts at answering it.

Your stories are proof that your answers have been lived, not just theorized.

Your insights are the hooks readers underline, repeat, and share.

No clear question? The writing will wander.

A well-shaped question is a quiet contract with your reader: If you give me your attention, I’ll help you explore this.

Step 4: Choose One Transformation, Not Ten

Here’s another place books lose their publishable shape: trying to change everything. I made this mistake as a newbie non-fiction writer years ago. I had so much I wanted to convey my writing was like a firehose of information. That would’ve been fine for a hermit living alone on a mountain with no other distractions and only my writing to read it. Perfect for someone who could digest everything I wrote and give each concept the time it required. But that’s not how people live these days.

If you want them to remember your message, you need to distill it in the simplest ways.

Ask yourself:

“If my reader finishes this piece and only one thing changes, what is it?”

Maybe:

  • They stop hiding behind data and share one honest story.
  • They reframe their “failure” as a turning point instead of a dead end.
  • They see their lived experience as expertise, not a side note.

That’s your transformation.

Now reality-check it by asking yourself:

  • Can I illustrate this shift with 3–7 strong stories or examples?
  • Can I explain it in a way that doesn’t require my reader to reinvent their whole life?
  • Does this transformation tie directly back to my “for who / so that” sentence?

When you focus on one core transformation, your big idea stops being a lecture and becomes a journey your reader can actually complete.

Step 5: Build a Spine Before You Build Chapters

Whether you’re writing a 1,500-word article or a 60,000-word manuscript, you need a spine: a simple structural throughline that everything else hangs on.

A spine might look like:

  • A 3-part journey: Before → Turning Point → After.
  • A 5-step framework.
  • A set of themed sections (e.g., Identity, Voice, Influence, Legacy).

Here’s a simple exercise:

1. Write your “for who / so that” sentence at the top of a page.

2. Underneath, list 5–7 sentences that could finish this phrase: “To get my reader from where they are to where they want to be, they need to understand that…”

3. Each of those sentences is a potential chapter, section, or key point.

You’ve just moved from big, amorphous idea to a publishable structure. Editors, agents, and sophisticated readers can work with that.

Step 6: Turn Lived Moments into Proof, Not Decoration

In publishable work, stories don’t exist just because they happened. They exist because they prove something. While this concept is important in real life, it’s tremendously important when you only have 60,000-70,000 words.

How often have you been to a cocktail party and someone is going on and on about something that happened to them and you’re wondering why are they telling us this? If you’re lucky, you get to the tie-in at the end. If you’re not, you may walk away still unsure of why they regaled you with their inconsequential experience.

To keep this from happening to you, take one core insight, for example, “Your defining story as a leader isn’t the moment you succeeded. It’s the moment you almost walked away.”

Now ask:

  • When did I live that?
  • When have my clients or colleagues lived it?
  • What did that moment reveal that nothing else could?

Choose 2–4 pivotal moments and map them like this:

  • What was at stake?
  • What choice was made?
  • What changed because of that choice?
  • What does this story demonstrate about my big idea?
  • When you connect each story to a specific insight, your book or article stops feeling like “a bunch of things that happened” and starts reading like a coherent argument with a memorable purpose.

Step 7: Test Your Insights in the Wild

Before you invest fully in a book-length project or pitch, test your insight where it’s cheap to be wrong:

  • Share a short LinkedIn post about your core idea.
  • Offer a 20-minute talk or lunch-and-learn centered on your key question.
  • Have three conversations with people who match your target reader and watch: Where do their eyes light up? Where do they push back? Where do they say, “No one ever talks about that part”?

You’re looking for signs of resonance and relief:

“I’ve never heard it put that way.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been feeling.”

“Can you say more about that?”

That feedback helps you refine your language, deepen your examples, and often discover the real insight hiding underneath your original idea.

## Step 8: Decide the Right Container: Article, Series, or Book?

Not every big idea needs to go straight to a book. Sometimes the most strategic move is to:

  • Start with a signature article that captures your core insight.
  • Expand into a 3–5 piece series exploring different angles of the same question.
  • Then decide whether the response justifies a full proposal or manuscript.

Good questions to ask:

Can this idea be fully explored in 1,500–3,000 words or do my reader and I genuinely need 40,000+ words to walk through this transformation?

Is this concept stronger as a tight, definitive piece of thought leadership, or as a longer journey with stories, frameworks, and reflection?

Publishable insight isn’t always about scale.

It’s about fit — the right idea in the right container for the right reader.

Is Your Story Ready Checklist

Your idea is moving toward “publishable” when you can:

  • Name a specific reader and a specific moment of need.
  • Say, in one sentence: “This is a book/article about X for Y so they can Z.”
  • Frame your idea around a clear question the reader already feels.
  • Point to one core transformation you’re offering.
  • Outline a simple spine of 3–7 key points or stages.
  • Pair each point with real stories or examples that prove it.
  • See real-world resonance when you share snippets of the idea.

From there, the writing becomes less “mystical” and more like what it really is: a structured, compassionate act of communication.

If your big idea won’t leave you alone…

If you’re sitting with a big, persistent idea that won’t quiet down, it’s usually a sign there’s something there.

You don’t have to decide today whether it’s an article, a keynote, or a book.

You just have to take the next step toward clarity:

  • Write your “for who / so that” sentence.
  • Name the question your reader is really asking.
  • Sketch the 3–7 things they’d need to understand or experience to change.

From there, shaping it into a publishable form is craft.

And craft can be learned, supported, and shared.

If you’d like a strategic partner in that process, that’s the work I do every day: helping leaders and survivors turn big, messy, important ideas into clear stories and manuscripts that can actually make it into the world.

But whether we work together or not, your idea deserves that chance.

After all, your story could become someone else’s lifeline.

Being a Writer Is Hard

writer

Writing is hard. Not terminal illness or losing a best friend hard. Okay, it’s not really hard at all.

But ideas are.

Ideas and the time in seat that it requires to hammer out nouns and verbs that agree. Not to mention sticking in a few things to make English teachers go “hmmm.”

That’s hard.

I’m one of the fortunate word slingers. I don’t get writer’s block. There’s a list of 20+ future novels in my notes app on my phone, not to mention all the scrap papers and cocktail napkins that I’ve written my endearing brilliance on. Half of which I can’t read. My handwriting is that bad, despite years in Catholic school with nuns helping me practice penmanship. I must’ve ignored them in much the same way I did my elementary school teachers when they tried to teach me the metric system. I told them it would never take hold in the US. Yes, I was a curmudgeon even then.

But if your head doesn’t resemble my book idea circus, I have a tip for you.

Go someplace that requires your attention on something outside of your own brain like a business meeting, a parent/teacher conference, or your child’s recounting of their latest video game feat. 

As they drone on and on, thoughts will begin to percolate. Ideas will vie for your attention. 

Listen.

Write that %#$* down.

If they ask, tell them you are taking notes on the conversation so you can refer to it later. Throw in a self-deprecating joke about your memory. Most people enjoy that kind of attention.


If you want to be more creative, have your pick of book or story ideas, and put an end to writer’s block with the same vigor that Jon Snow slayed Daenrys, you’re going to love my new project, Creative Fugue

Stay tuned for more details. Or don’t. Whatever.

On second thought, you should. You really should.

Let’s stay in touch.

The Writing Career Path

When I was 7, I wanted to be two things in life: a writer and a mom.

I am one of the fortunate ones who has had her dreams come true even if I plodded through a very thick, overgrown path to get there.

The author at six, on the right

I’m not going to talk about my path to motherhood. That’s a different type of genre, after all.

But I will tell you how I became a writer.

First, I wanted to. That’s the important part. You have to want to be a writer because you certainly don’t chose this life for the monetary reward, the glamor, the people you’ll meet along the way, or the extravagant business trips.

Writing is a solitary life full of creative problem solving like how you’re going to pay your next bill. Many of us take jobs on the side. Even the famous among us. Well, not Stephen King or JK Rowling. But look at a list of traditionally published authors and you’ll see a lot of teachers, professors, and other jobs cluttering up their resumes. Very few of us are full-time fiction writers. I’m a marketing writer, for instance. I write website copy and articles when I’m not making up tales.

But I digress.

I didn’t go into this blindly. I knew the difficulty behind becoming a writer in a world where people no longer read anything lengthier than a tweet.

Oh. You’re still here? You’re one of the 1%!

When my godmother asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I announced my intentions, she said…

and I remember this so clearly. I can’t tell you why I got up and just walked into this room but I can clearly remember she said…

“You sure do have your head in the clouds.”

Another one of my parents’ friends suggested I follow in my parents’ footsteps and go into medicine but frankly, I’ve never been that caring and selfless of a person.

Later, my father told me to find a job I could live off of. Well, that knocked out writer.

So I tried to divert my energies into other ways writers could make money.

I worked writing:

  • ceremonial documents for the governor
  • disaster recovery plans
  • fashion descriptions for a home shopping channel
  • marketing collateral for a tech firm

These jobs all paid the bills, but they didn’t feed my soul and that’s a luxury most of us Americans long for. I could never shake the desire to do my own thing.

At one point I worked for a publishing company that published college textbooks. Every year before school started, you would swear you could smell brimstone in the office. Dante knows what I’m talking about. It became hellish.

And there was one particular salesperson who took his dissatisfaction with life out on me. Now, I’m not a perfectionist but I take pride in my work and this particular ripping got to me.

I swore at that moment that I wasn’t going to listen to one more angry anyone. I quit my job about two weeks later.

I’d like to tell you I’ve been writing successfully ever since but it took another 10 years and another shove from the universe masked in “the department is going in a different direction” in the tech company I was working for to get me doing my own thing.

So this whole convoluted blog post was written to tell you this:

sometimes your crappiest experiences are laying the groundwork for you becoming the person you want to be.