Stealing Thunder

Doing well has proven to be disappointing on some levels. I never thought getting somewhere or attaining my goals would cause that emotion. But it does, or rather has. Maybe, I should say it did.

I spent my life making ends meet and sometimes barely that. I made bad decisions, kept the wrong company, married poorly (my first husband), and quite frankly, just never had been taught how to save or think ahead, to the what ifs of life. I lived day to day, as I imagine most regular people do.

In the scope of my life, I had goals and dreams I never met, and some that I may not meet at this age, any longer. That is all okay. I am where I am today and I am completely content. But contentment and happiness in where I am and what I am of have achieved these past months, comes with disappointment.

I am not disappointed in myself, not at all. I am quite proud of myself and my accomplishments so far. But the letdown comes from the reactions of those I hold most dear to me. Family and friends, that I expected to be happy for me, don’t quite seem to be. I’ll first need to give you some background on me. Hold on to your chairs.

I’m not that exciting, so you don’t really have to hold on to your chairs. What I am is a very late bloomer.

In adolescence, I loved art. I use the word love, very carefully, in life. It’s a word used and cheapened on every thing on the planet. It almost doesn’t mean what it should anymore. That seems like a huge loss to language, in my estimation. Thought for another post.

I loved art and it was something that gave me an inner calm and pleasure, that little else does. When I would create, I was free to do as I wanted, create what I wanted, express myself as I wanted. I lost that for over thirty years. The beginning of that road, coming with marriage that was not conducive to financially supporting art as a career or even a hobby. The relationship was a misery, right out of the gate, and it extinguished my enjoyment on life. I never picked it up again. Never thought of it again, though I had stints of crafting, artistically, it never filled me. Those attempts, I now know, were my inner need to outwardly express my soul artistically, but in the end were failures, because they were not what I was screaming for inside.

I also had a love of English, more specifically writing and forming a picture, idea, or argument with words. I was a good writer in school and I enjoyed it. Don’t get me wrong, the assignments for creative writing were ass numbing and anything but conducive to creativity, but they had their merit. I never took it, or art, anywhere or any further than the scholastic experience. I like many others, I imagine, was discouraged into the liberal arts.

My parents, well dad, always said I could do anything I wanted in life, but in the same breath would say there was no future in the arts. No one makes money in those fields. So, I did what most kids do, and I went for a business admin education. Ass numbing times ten. Ultimately, I spent my career in the medical field, in administration. I love the medical field. I do and I enjoyed it. My dragon slept, always there, under my skin, but hibernating, only to stir here and there, with each creative attempt in crafting.

My dragon slept for the better part of my life. Sephira, I’ll call her, did not fuss or pressure me to get out. Life had an adept way of keeping her in slumber mode. And Sephira complied.

Fast forward, thirty years. We are empty nesters. Our son raised and on his own, succeeding and not needing us as he did when he was home, and I was facing boredom and a lack of interest in anything other than drowning myself in a book each day.

The year leading to my son, leaving home I spent reading almost a book a day. I was distracting my mind from the inevitable boredom I was about to face. No more, swim meets to go to, no more cooking for the swim club meets or my son’s youth group and I was about to begin feeling useless. Aside from him, my home did not need much attention, and my husband, is kind of low maintenance. I always make sure he has a good meal and his clothes are clean, take care of our books and he is happy as a clam. Easy peasy. So, what then?

Three things happened, all, oddly enough, around the same time. First, we had had a luncheon for our church friends one weekend. I always tell them to bring family of friends, and one friends brought someone he was friends with. Second, in January, my son moved to Colorado to begin his adulting. Don’t ever let your kids leave home. I vehemently do not recommend it. (just kidding). Third, my husband bought a couple sketchbooks for us to tinker with.

At the luncheon, I began to speak to our friend’s friend and found out she was a writer. Coincidentally, I had been writing a blog, cataloguing life experiences for a book I have always wanted to write, the she asked if I’d let her read it. I emailed it to her, that day. She sent me a text after she had read it, saying I needed to be writing, intentionally. She said I had talent and began mentoring me.

Our son moving was a “shot heard round the world”, piercing my heart. Oh how dramatic, but he’s my only cherub and I adore him. I am happy for him and we did our job right, so that makes it feel much better.

The sketchbooks. Yes, they sat for a long time, lonely, dejected, waiting to be put to use with color and pencil. It was sad. They were sad and felt unwanted, unloved.

Just then, Sephira stirred. She began to wake, slowly at first, from such a long sleep. She had stirred when I began my blog, but now had an eye open and was feeding me her adrenaline. I was beginning to write. I started with poetry. Why poetry? Well, I am a bit of a freak when it comes to someone saying or telling me I can’t, even when it’s me doing the manipulating. I don’t believe in can’t. I believe I can and I will. If for some reason something blocks me, I try other ways to go at something, until I make it possible. No, I don’t always succeed. I fail a lot, and I mean a lot. But not for lack of trying. I started with poetry, because I hated it.

No, I didn’t hate poetry per se, but I hated writing it. Every time I was forced to write it in school, I hated it a bit more. Ugh. So, I decided to go there, to take on my nemesis. I thought it would be the easiest start into writing. It was not. It was hard, but I was not going to let it best me. And he has not.

My first pieces are cringe worthy. I keep them around and from time to time I look at them to remember every road has a beginning. But then my work changed and started to improve. I had something to say, and poetry was the vehicle that I chose to ride off the cliff. I started writing poems in April of 2025, and in May I was published the first time. That same month I was published a few times and by different publications, and that set the hook. I was off. I never looked back. I have been published over twenty times online and in print. I am proud of that.

At the same time that I began writing, I picked up the sketchbook and watched some tutorials to refresh my hands and brain. I played with watercolors. My first finished piece was a watercolor. It was like giving heroin to an addict. I could not stop. I began drawing every day and more times than not, I drew two or three pieces a day. I turned our office into my office and studio. I got serious and I got busy.

I have to date written over two hundred pieces, and I have created over five hundred pieces of art. I am happy and content, like I have never been before. I created a collaborative on TikTok, of artists that go unseen, and we publish a collection of pieces once a month. We started with three or four artists and are now up to twelve, every talented men and women.

Stealing my thunder is what, I never expected. Here I am, exhilarated with my writing and art, and the ones closest to me, are silent. Crickets chirping, silent. None of them have read a single piece, or purchased a single book I am published in. No one says they are happy for me or my little success. Not a one.

I was so disappointed in that. Why should the people that love you, not be happy for you. I am happy when others succeed and I tell them so. Not even the writer friends I have, or aspiring writers, even mention it. They of all people should know how difficult it is to be published. And nothing. I think and deep down believe they resent it. I am not trying to steal anyone’s thunder, but I wish they would not steal mine. I need and love my friends and family, and their encouragement. But even if I don’t get it. I’ll guard this thunder as my lightening goes forth.

I have mentioned it to my husband and he just said not to worry or think about it or the why’s of their silence. So I have stopped fussing over it. It’s hard. With each success, I feel farther removed from them.

I was even disappointed in my spouse. I asked him to read so many pieces, and he never did. I would relent to sending him copies to read. Then he would, but his commentary was less than encouraging. Then today, I get a shock. We are sitting having coffee at the dining table, and he makes a comment on my last piece. If you follow me, it’s the post called Lies.

I looked at him a second and asked if he’d actually read it. And he said he reads all my posts. I picked my teeth and jaw up off of the ground and asked him how. He said he joined Substack, when I began writing and posting there, and he reads them as I post them. That put a smile on my face.

Please don’t think that I believe you need the accolades of others in or for, your work. You don’t. I don’t, but it is nice to share the happiness with them. It’s nice knowing they are happy for me. That being said, if I don’t get that, I am and will be happy for me. It’s been a long time since I have felt this energized, and I won’t let my rumple die out.

Don’t ever let anything steal your thunder. Find those who will encourage you to go further, to keep going, and make them your people. And then make sure you give them that in return.

I want to say one last thing. To my husband, I thank you for filling my heart today. You made me and make me happier.