What if we only get to do this once?

On dreams.

Hello there!

Over the past few weeks, I’ve loved going behind the scenes of Dandelion Seeds with you — sharing about the spark that started it all, as well as the process that helps me bring new illustrated essays to life each week. 

Today, in this final part of the series, I want to end with a note about dreams.

I used to think my greatest dream as a writer was to become an author. 

All I wanted was to see my name on the spine of a book, and to flip through its pages knowing they held the words closest to my heart. 

But earlier this year — just a couple of months after I started Dandelion Seeds — I realized that dream had changed, without me even noticing it. 

I was up late with Elena one night. She wasn’t settling into sleep, and nursing seemed to be the only thing that could bring her comfort. We sat there together for more than an hour, in the quiet darkness of her room, swaying back and forth in our wooden rocking chair. The only sound was the gentle shhing of her white noise machine.

When I finally got her back down and made my way to bed, Jose was already fast asleep beside me. I remember it was a Wednesday night, because Courtney Martin had just published a new essay that day on her Substack,

the examined family

, and her essays are something I look forward to every week. 

As I sat in bed, winding down from the day, I opened her latest post. 

It was called “What projects don’t exist because I exist instead?” and it held a paragraph I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I read it:

The minute I read that last line, I only get to do this once, I began to cry. Not just a few stray tears, but full on weep, right there in the quiet darkness of our room, the only light the pale glow of my phone. 

I wept because Courtney’s words hit a deep nerve — or rather, several deep nerves.

They hit me, first and foremost, as a mother. I only get to do this once with Elena, no matter how long a day might feel or how hard a night may be.

And her words hit me as a creative, as someone who has always had big dreams and has thought of life as being full of infinite possibilities, not finite ones.

I’ve started so many new things over the years, from book proposals and blogging projects to a community of sketch artists, and I’ve always taken it for granted that I’ll have the time to see them through. If this idea doesn’t work out, there will always be time for the next one. And the one after that.

But on that particular late night with Elena, as I sat up in bed and felt the tears fall, my mind turned to Dandelion Seeds, the newest new thing I’d started. 

And I thought — if I only get to do this once, and if this newsletter is the last project I ever begin, then I’m so glad I did.

It’s become a place to share the stories I most want to tell; to engage in a process that lets me tap into all the different facets of my creativity; and to connect with people — with you — in a way that feels real and meaningful. 

The heart of my dream hasn’t changed, but the form and shape of my dream has. 

I once believed I needed to hold a book in my hands to feel like I’m doing my best creative work. Now, as long as that work exists in the world, it feels like enough. 

I’ll always be grateful for the wisdom that Courtney Martin shared in her essay. Her words have become a mantra for me since I first read them, and as this series comes to an end, it’s one I also want to share with you today.

Friends, may we always remember:

We only get to do this once. 

I only get to do this once 🤍