The Night I Almost Gave Up on My Dream

The Clock Struck 3 a.m.

I sat at my desk, staring at a blank screen, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat I couldn’t feel. It was 3 a.m., and my apartment was silent except for the hum of my laptop. My novel—my dream—was a mess of scattered notes and half-finished chapters. I’d been writing for years, pouring my soul into a story I believed could change lives. But that night, I was done. I hovered my mouse over the “delete” button, ready to erase it all.

I’d always wanted to be a writer. As a kid, I’d scribble stories in spiral notebooks, dreaming of seeing my name on a bookshelf. But at 29, with a string of rejections from publishers and a day job that drained me, that dream felt like a cruel joke. My inbox was a graveyard of polite “no’s.” My bank account was screaming for stability. And my heart? It was breaking.

The Weight of Failure

The past year had been brutal. I’d submitted my manuscript to 47 agents. Forty-seven. Each rejection stung more than the last. “Not a good fit,” they’d say, or worse, nothing at all. My friends were getting promotions, buying houses, starting families. Meanwhile, I was eating instant noodles, working overtime at a call center, and writing in stolen hours. I felt like I was running in place while the world sped by.

That night, the doubts were louder than ever. You’re not good enough. You’re wasting your life. Give up. I opened a bottle of cheap wine, poured a glass, and let the tears come. I thought about my mom, who’d always believed in me, but even her encouragement felt distant now. She’d passed away two years ago, and with her went my biggest cheerleader. Without her, the dream felt heavier, like a weight I couldn’t carry alone.

I clicked “select all” on my manuscript. My finger hovered over “delete.” One click, and I could be free of this failure. I could get a better job, save money, live a normal life. But as my hand trembled, something stopped me—a memory, sharp and vivid, of a moment I’d almost forgotten.

A Voice from the Past

It was a summer evening, years ago, when I was 17. Mom and I were sitting on our porch, the air thick with jasmine. I’d just finished reading her a short story I’d written for school. It was about a girl who found courage in a world that tried to break her. When I looked up, Mom’s eyes were shining with tears. “This,” she said, pointing at my notebook, “this is your gift. Promise me you’ll never stop sharing it.”

Her words had carried me through college, through late nights at coffee shops, through every rejection. But now, they felt like a promise I couldn’t keep. Still, I closed the document without deleting it. I couldn’t betray her—not yet. Instead, I grabbed my phone and scrolled through old photos, landing on one of us laughing at the beach. Her smile was so alive, so full of belief in me. I started typing, not in my manuscript, but in a note to myself: Why did I start writing?

The Why That Changed Everything

Writing wasn’t just about seeing my name on a book. It was about the stories I wanted to tell—stories of hope, of people who kept going despite the odds. I wrote because I wanted someone, anyone, to read my words and feel less alone. I wrote because Mom saw something in me I was still trying to see in myself. That night, I realized I wasn’t just fighting for a book deal. I was fighting for the girl who believed she could make a difference.

I didn’t sleep. Instead, I opened my manuscript again. I read the first chapter, then the second. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. There were lines that made me smile, scenes that still gave me chills. For the first time in months, I saw potential instead of flaws. I started editing, cutting weak sentences, sharpening dialogue. By dawn, I’d rewritten ten pages. They weren’t perfect, but they were better. And so was I.

The Turning Point

The next morning, I did something I hadn’t done in years: I shared my work. I sent a short story—a side project I’d written for fun—to a small online literary magazine. I didn’t expect much, but a week later, I got an email. They wanted to publish it. It wasn’t a book deal, but it was a win. A spark. For the first time, I felt like I wasn’t shouting into the void.

That spark grew. I started posting snippets of my writing on X, using hashtags like #AmWriting and #WritersLife. Strangers commented, saying my words resonated. One reader messaged me: “Your story about loss made me feel seen. Thank you.” Those words hit harder than any rejection. They reminded me why I started.

A New Chapter

Over the next year, I kept writing. I joined a local writers’ group, where I met people who understood the grind. I submitted to more magazines, racking up small publications. Each one felt like a brick in a foundation I was building. I wasn’t “there” yet, but I was moving. I was fighting. And every time I wanted to quit, I thought of Mom’s voice on that porch, telling me to keep going.

My manuscript? It’s still a work in progress. I’ve sent it to new agents, and while the rejections still come, they don’t sting as much. Because now I know: the dream isn’t about one book or one moment. It’s about showing up, every day, for the stories I need to tell. It’s about honoring the people who believed in me and the ones I hope to reach.

The Lesson I Carry

That night at 3 a.m., I almost gave up on my dream. But I learned something: dreams don’t die because of rejections or doubts. They die when you stop fighting for them. I’m still here, writing, because I chose to keep going. And if you’re reading this, chasing your own dream—whether it’s writing, painting, or something else entirely—don’t let one dark night stop you. You’re closer than you think.

Keep Going

If you’re struggling, if you’re staring at your own “delete” button, pause. Remember why you started. Find one person, one memory, one reason to keep going. Write it down. Hold it close. And then, keep creating. The world needs your story.