My Writing Journey

If my writing journey had an official mascot, it would be a Galapagos giant tortoise — slow, a little clumsy, and carrying a shell full of both dreams and doubts. I began writing in the late stages of lockdown, and since then, my path has been anything but straight. Some days, words spill from my mind faster than my fingers can keep up. Other days, I sit frozen, wondering where I went wrong. Over the years, I’ve come to learn something very important: progress is still progress, no matter the speed. Even writing a single sentence is better than nothing at all. Like the tortoise, I know that progress won’t always be visible, but every step counts — even the little ones.

The Struggles

As the lockdown restrictions ended and I returned to the normal rhythm of school life, writing had become second nature for me. I told myself I could balance it all — homework, extracurriculars, and still carve out time for writing. Easy, right?

Wrong. Within weeks, my neatly planned schedule started to crumble. Assignments piled up, exhaustion set in, and the hours I once spent happily typing turned into minutes stolen between classes. Writing started feeling like an obligation rather than a hobby, and that scared me.

Fan fiction has always been a way for me to escape from reality, a way to step into other worlds when the real one felt too heavy.

Through new characters, diverging plot lines, and funny dialogue, I could make sense of things I couldn’t always say out loud. But suddenly, even fan fiction felt draining. I’d sit at my desk, staring at the blinking cursor, unable to write the words that once came so easily.

And when I wasn’t writing as much, another problem crept in — doubt. I would get updates from my favorite authors every day, each announcing a new chapter. Their stories racked up thousands of comments and millions of views, while mine sat untouched, gathering dust. Every time I refreshed my notifications, I was met with silence. It wasn’t just discouraging; it felt like proof. Proof that maybe my writing wasn’t worth anyone’s time. Why could they write so effortlessly while I struggled to finish a page? The thought lodged itself in my mind like a stone. Maybe I just wasn’t good enough. Every notification felt like a reminder of what I couldn’t do. It wasn’t exactly jealousy — it was something heavier, like shame mixed with fear.

Finding My Way Back

One morning, I woke up and thought, “Why am I comparing myself at all?” This was my story, my pace, my joy. That realization shifted something inside me, but I wasn’t sure where to start. Then my mom asked for the link to one of my stories. At first, I thought she just wanted to skim it, but she ended up sharing it with her friends — one of whom was a publisher. When she told me they had actually read it and loved it, I was stunned. Weeks of self-doubt started to crumble in an instant. That tiny bit of encouragement reminded me why I had started writing in the first place.

For the first time in a long while, I wrote purely for myself — for the joy of creating characters, shaping worlds, and watching dialogue unfold on the page. I wasn’t chasing notifications, likes, or views. I wasn’t racing anyone else. Slowly, the burden of comparison lifted, and I realized that writing could be a space of freedom again. It wasn’t about finishing a novel in a month or matching the output of others. It was about showing up, even when it felt small, even when it felt invisible.

I also began to notice something else: writing without pressure made it easier to experiment. I allowed myself to write badly, to pause mid-sentence, and to explore ideas that might never see the light of day. And yet, each attempt, each scribbled page, felt meaningful. Even the mistakes mattered. They were reminders that I was moving forward, even when it didn’t look like it. Progress didn’t have to be flashy; it could be quiet, patient, and steady.

Lessons Learned

If you’re a writer — or just someone chasing something creative — I want you to remember this: your pace is your own. You don’t need to measure yourself against people who seem miles ahead. Progress isn’t only the chapters you publish or the likes you get, it’s the moments where you show up and try again. Even the smallest step forward matters.

I’ve learned that validation can come in unexpected ways. Sometimes it’s a friend, sometimes a stranger, sometimes your own internal voice reminding you that what you create matters.

I’ve learned that setbacks aren’t proof of failure, they’re proof that I care. I’ve learned that joy and pressure cannot coexist — and that learning to prioritize the first will ultimately fuel the second.

Like the tortoise, I’ve learned that patience, persistence, and a little self-compassion can carry you farther than you ever imagined — one careful step at a time. Writing isn’t a race, and life isn’t a leaderboard. Your journey will be slow sometimes, messy other times, but it will always be yours. And sometimes, the slowest journeys are the most rewarding.