I wrote a Memoir–and now I’m scared.

It feels strange to admit that out loud, I am afraid my story isn’t “big” enough. It’s not salacious or dramatic. I haven’t run a Fortune 500 company, shaken hands with world leaders or survived a scandal, like so many of the women whose memoirs I’ve read lately.  My life has been quieter, rooted, shaped by people and places that may never make headlines.

Yet here I am, on the brink of publishing Memories on Mill Creek, feeling that familiar rise of fear–starting in my gut, racing to my brain, whispering all the unkind words of criticism and doubt. The timing is almost comical: I spent nearly five years writing this book, a deeply personal and cathartic journey that carried me back through decades of moments, relationships, heartbreaks, and joys. Every chapter asked me to return to places I thought I had already understood. The process softened some pieces of me and strengthened others. Now that it’s ready to go out into the world…fear decides to show up. You would think after all the early mornings hunched over my laptop, all the drafts, edits and tears, I’d be ready to celebrate. But instead, fear swirls around me like a cold wind off the creek in early spring.

But as I sit here reflecting, I’m realizing something important.

This isn’t new. Fear always shows up for me right before something big. I’ve seen this pattern throughout my life. As a teenager, preparing for a scholarship pageant, I practiced walking in heels and answering questions with poise–only to lie awake the night before, convinced I would forget how to speak.

In midlife, when I trained for a marathon, I ran mile after mile, built strength and stamina, and then, just before race day, fear whispered that I wasn’t ready.

And now, with a memoir polished and printed, the same voice has returned–like an old friend who knows exactly which door to knock on. Who are you to write a book? Who will even want to read it?

What I see now that I didn’t see then is that fear has never been a sign that I am not qualified or ready. Fear has always been a sign that I am stretching. I think of Georgia O’Keeffe, the beloved American artist, who once said, “I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life—and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do,”

Her words reach me like sunlight through the trees. Fear is not proof that we are small. It’s proof that we are brave enough to be standing at the edge of something meaningful.

In the natural world–especially at the creek–change is constant, and often uncomfortable. The water freezes, thaws, rushes, retreats. Logs jam, then loosen. Banks crumble and rebuild themselves. Every season reshapes the landscape, and these shifts are often loud, messy, unpredictable, yet completely natural.

Maybe fear works the same way. Maybe it is just emotional weather shifting inside us before something new begins.

When I picture the creek, I remember that beauty rarely comes with perfection. It comes from movement–from the way water makes its own path, even through stone. My story may not be filled with headlines or glamour, but it is mine. It is shaped by people who loved me, places that grounded me, and the kind of everyday moments that leave quiet imprints on a life. That I am learning, is worth writing about.

So here I am–heart pounding, hands trembling, story ready–letting fear sit beside me without letting it take the wheel.

Thanks for reading my first Reflection from the Creek, thank you for walking with me as I release something tender and vulnerable into the world. I hope in some small way, my story reminds you of your own–the hidden bravery, the ordinary beauty, the memories that shaped you in ways you might not have noticed.

Here’s to doing the things our hearts long for.

Here’s to releasing what we’ve created, even when we feel unsteady.

Here’s to fear showing up–

And to us doing the thing anyway.

And with that,

I am learning the gentle, necessary art of letting my story go.

–Kristi