Why you should ignore the voices and just f*cking do it.
I just wanted to write about writing today. What prompted this? About a month ago, a friend invited me to a book reading event. “Come! The publisher will be there. I’ll introduce you,” she said. And so she did.
I shared with the publisher what my book was about: my daughter who still wishes loudly that she had cancer sometimes, and why that might be. The publisher said she would love to read it and promptly gave me her contact details. Then, for the rest of the week, I spiraled into panicked, self-loathing anxiety. What if I sent it and embarrassed myself? Maybe my manuscript was subpar and my friends simply hadn’t had the heart to tell me. I spent the week obsessively polishing the first few chapters, hoping to submit at least a half-decent sample that might hold her attention long enough to make her want to read the rest.
I sent the sample and heard nothing for two weeks. When I followed up, she explained she’d been inundated with work. “Ok, that’s better than her hating my work,” I thought.
Fast forward to this week. Mid-pee, I received a WhatsApp message asking if she could read the rest of the book. SHE COULD NOT PUT DOWN WHAT SHE HAD READ ONCE SHE STARTED! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve harassed ChatGPT, Claude, and Gemini, asking if they thought my work was decent. (Let’s just say if AI were to take over the world today, they’d eliminate me first—purely out of annoyance from my validation-seeking queries!) But hearing feedback from an actual publisher, someone who has read countless manuscripts, was the true validation I so hungered for.’
This post isn’t intended as a puff piece, but rather a call to JUST DO THE THING. Don’t just talk about it. Don’t just dream about it. Don’t make excuses that you aren’t good enough. Because what if you already are?
Let me tell you how I began writing this book. When my daughter had cancer, I promised I would write about the experience once we came out the other side, regardless of the outcome. Then I sat on it. The excuses came: no time, what could I possibly share that would be significant, and more. Two years passed.
Finally, I decided to do it—not for external validation, but for myself. To prove I was competent enough to complete a book, to see a long project through without giving up. To tell myself I wasn’t the loser or quitter I sometimes believed I was. Regardless of quality, the goal was simple: finish the book I set out to write, for myself and as a tribute to my daughter. Something tangible she could hold onto for years to come, reminding her of what she’d endured and achieved.
And so I wrote. At first, I sat in front of the computer for hours, producing only a few sentences daily. The self-disgust I felt reading my work with that over-critical eye was brutal. But still I wrote. I told myself it didn’t matter if I wrote in the worst English possible, as long as the entire story emerged. No one else in the world could tell this story except me. I could always hire a ghostwriter or editor to polish it later.
Day after day, I forced myself to sit and write for at least an hour. When I wasn’t feeling creative or had nothing new to say, I’d polish earlier chapters repeatedly. I had no format or formula, no thoughtfully prepared outline. I had no idea how I would present the story. I just knew I wanted to share Myra’s amazing story of how dark times can be lived with light and joy.
So I barreled through, writing whatever came to mind and typing notes at the bottom of the document about topics to explore later. During morning walks, I’d think about what was worth sharing and how I might say it.
Slowly, a structure emerged. The story would unfold as events happened, followed by lessons learned from each situation. Because ultimately, many people face cancer and treatment daily. What made our experience unique was how mindset shifts determined how well we lived life, even through difficulty.
I kept going, and now the book is nearly finished. Based on one publisher’s feedback, it turned out far better than I expected.
I’m not a published author (yet!), but this is my call for you to JUST F*CKING DO IT. Do it unsure. Do it scared. Do it badly. But take that first step, then another small step, then another. Stop when you must, but promise yourself you’ll return again and again, step after step. One day, you’ll look back and be glad you did—even if it only means handing your daughter a lovingly written copy of your unpublished manuscript as a reminder of how much she’s achieved and how much you love her.
This isn’t just for writers. If you’re planning to learn a new skill, lose extra weight you’ve been carrying, speak before an audience, run a marathon, get a PhD, start a business, or chase your dream—remember, you owe it to your future self to take that first step and just f*cking do it.
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