The weeks following the retreat in the mountains had given me the space I needed to process everything that had happened. I felt more grounded, more in touch with myself. The success of the book was no longer the focal point of my life; it had become a part of the story, a chapter within the larger journey I was still navigating. However, I couldn't deny that there was still much to learn—both about the world of publishing and about myself.
The book had done better than I could have ever hoped, but the expectations had risen, and so had the pressure. With each positive review, the bar was set higher, and I felt the weight of that. Writing had always been my passion, my release, my escape. But now it felt as though it was becoming something else—something I had to prove myself with. It was no longer just about telling a story. It was about living up to others' expectations. I could feel the uncertainty creeping back in, like a shadow that had followed me since the beginning of this journey.
I had always known that success came with its own set of challenges. When I first started writing, it was just me, my thoughts, and the quiet solitude of the page. I wrote without the burden of anyone's opinion but my own. But now, it felt different. Now, there were audiences to please, reviewers to impress, and numbers to watch. I couldn't help but wonder: Was I truly ready for this? Was I prepared to take the next step?
I had been given a platform—a voice—and with that came the responsibility of making the most of it. But what did that even mean? I didn't want to get lost in the noise, to become someone who wrote solely for the applause or the praise. I wanted my writing to matter, but I also wanted it to be mine. I had to find a way to balance those two things, to stay true to my voice while navigating the pressures of public success.