I’ve spent the last few years writing two children’s books, usually in the evenings when the house finally quietens and I can settle into that small corner of the day that belongs only to me. Writing is one of those pursuits that demands a great deal while promising very little in return, at least in the beginning. You invest months, sometimes years, into a story, not knowing whether anyone beyond your laptop screen will ever read it.

My first book took eighteen months and three full edits before I felt ready to send it to literary agents. I still remember hovering over the send button, wondering whether bravery and foolishness are sometimes the same thing. The replies arrived slowly, each one polite, respectful and ultimately a no. It wasn’t easy to read them, but none of them made me want to give up. If anything, they nudged me further into the idea that the writing itself was worth more than the outcome.

So I wrote a second book. This one came together more quickly (fourteen months, two edits) and once again I began sending it out, fully aware there may be more rejections on the way. There is something oddly grounding about that. When you accept the possibility of no, you free yourself to keep going anyway.

Somewhere in the middle of this, I came across a statistic that still makes me pause: only around three percent of people who start writing a book ever finish a full draft. The rest quietly drift away from the manuscript somewhere along the journey.

I’m in the three percent twice. Not because I’m especially gifted or disciplined, but because I’m stubborn enough to keep going. And the interesting thing is that this isn’t really a story about writing at all. It’s a story about resilience and what the process has taught me.

As I’ve worked on these books, three clear lessons have come up again and again. They’re not dramatic revelations or catchy lines, but they do sit at the heart of how we build the lives and careers we want.

1. Progress rarely looks exciting from the inside

When you’re working on something meaningful, be it a book, a business idea, a new direction, most days feel remarkably ordinary. There are no fireworks, no dramatic breakthroughs, no Hollywood montage where everything falls into place.

Most of the time, progress is quiet. You write a paragraph, rewrite it, delete half of it and then return the next evening to try again. From the outside people see the achievement; from the inside you’re simply turning up.

I’ve noticed that women in education are often hard on themselves because they expect progress to feel more impressive. In reality, it’s the slow accumulation of ordinary days that builds something extraordinary.

2. Rejection isn’t a verdict, it’s information

Literary agents don’t reject books because they dislike the author; they do it because the story isn’t quite right for them. Once I understood that, the rejections felt less personal and more like data I could use.

In business and career transitions, the same applies. A no doesn’t mean stop. It usually means 'not this format', or 'not now', or 'not with this person'. Yet I see so many talented educators interpret setbacks as a sign that the whole idea was flawed.

Most of the time, it just needs refining. Just like a manuscript.

3. Resilience isn’t heroic, it’s steady

We tend to imagine resilience as this grand, gritty quality people summon in moments of crisis. But in practice it looks far less dramatic. It’s the choice to come back to the work even when it’s slow. It’s the decision to take the next step without proof that it will lead anywhere. It’s showing up for yourself long enough to see what’s possible.

Writing taught me this in a way nothing else has. There have been evenings when the last thing I wanted to do was open the document again, but I did it anyway, not because I felt inspired, but because I was committed.

That quiet form of resilience (the kind that doesn’t make a fuss) is exactly what I want to nurture inside my Elevate and Flow masterclasses. They’re designed for women who are building ideas, exploring new directions, or beginning something of their own while balancing everything else their lives demand.

It's a space to think more clearly, make grounded decisions and develop the steady resilience that allows a new chapter to take shape.

So if you're standing on the edge of something new (a business idea, a change of direction, a quiet dream you’ve been carrying for longer than you care to admit) perhaps the question isn’t “Can I do this?” but “Am I willing to keep going?”

If you are, then you’re already further along than most. And if you’d like support as you take those steps, you’re always welcome to join us.