GOOD THINGS TAKE TIME

I used to think life was a race.

Growing up, I constantly looked around and saw people moving faster than me. Friends graduating early, landing dream jobs, getting engaged, buying houses, traveling the world while I was… just there. Living with my parents. Working part-time at a bookstore. Waiting for “something” to happen.

And every time someone told me, “Don’t worry, good things take time,” I nodded politely, but inside I rolled my eyes. That phrase felt like a band-aid people slapped on disappointment.

Until life proved me wrong.

The Restless Years

After college, I hit a wall. I had studied Creative Writing, imagining I'd publish a novel by 25, be featured in interviews, maybe even teach workshops someday. But instead, I was 27, working weekends at a small indie bookstore, and spending most evenings staring at a blinking cursor on a blank Word document.

I had dozens of story ideas, but none felt “good enough.” I’d start writing and delete everything the next day. I wanted instant perfection — like I was competing with the polished work of authors I admired. I didn’t realize back then that what I admired were often their fifth or sixth books, written after years of quiet, persistent effort.

There was a time I nearly gave up. I remember sitting in the breakroom of the store one rainy afternoon, eating a cold sandwich, feeling utterly useless. That was the day Emma, the bookstore owner and someone who had become a quiet mentor to me, sat beside me and said something I’ll never forget:

"You don’t plant a seed and dig it up every day to see if it’s grown. You water it. You give it light. And you wait."

I didn’t say anything at the time, but her words settled somewhere deep.

The Shift

So I began to do something radical.

I slowed down.

Instead of demanding a perfect story from myself, I gave myself permission to write badly. Really badly. I created a ritual: tea, soft music, a 30-minute timer, and no expectations. Just the act of writing — messy, flawed, real. And slowly, things began to change.

Characters became clearer. Scenes stuck. Emotions found words.

I started writing a short story inspired by an old journal entry. It was clumsy at first, but there was heart in it. I worked on it for three months, polished it with feedback from a small online writing group, and finally submitted it to a digital magazine.

It got published.

The joy wasn’t loud — there were no book deals or viral moments — but it was the kind of quiet triumph that filled me with something warm and solid. Like proof that maybe I was on the right path after all.

The Growth You Don’t See

Here’s what they don’t tell you about growth: most of it happens in the quiet.

It happens in the early mornings when no one’s watching. In the countless drafts that never get seen. In the rejections that sting but teach. In the patience it takes to trust your journey, even when it looks nothing like anyone else’s.

Over the next two years, I kept writing. Slowly. Deliberately. I built a portfolio of short stories. I started a blog with a handful of loyal readers. I got better, not because of sudden talent, but because of consistent effort.

And then one day, out of nowhere, I received an email from a small independent publisher. They had read one of my stories online and wanted to know if I had a manuscript.

I did. Half-finished. Sitting in a dusty folder.

It took me six more months to complete it. Another four to revise. And when I finally held the printed copy of my debut novel in my hands, I cried. Not just because of what I had accomplished, but because I finally understood the value of everything it took to get there.

A New Perspective

Looking back now, I realize that every "delay" in my journey was actually a necessary part of it.

If I had published too early, my work wouldn’t have had the depth it does now. If I hadn’t struggled, I wouldn’t appreciate the process. If I hadn’t waited, I wouldn’t have grown.

What once felt like failure was really just foundation.

That bookstore? I still visit Emma often. She keeps a signed copy of my book behind the register and tells every young writer who comes in, “Be patient. Look what happened to her.”

And I smile, because now I understand: Good things don’t just take time — they take faith, effort, and love.

The Moral

Life is not a race, and success is not a destination. It’s a journey shaped by time, struggle, and growth. If you’re working toward something that matters to you — a dream, a goal, a calling — give it the patience it deserves. Keep showing up, even when progress feels invisible. Because one day, what you built quietly will speak loudly. And you’ll realize it was worth every slow step.

Good things take time — and that’s what makes them truly good.