Runner Up

When I was a kid, I would read everything and anything, though admittedly I gravitated toward fiction. I loved stories about funky, zany characters like Pippi Longstocking or journeys of self-discovery like Huck in Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I connected to these types of characters because their parents were nonexistent.

While I had parents, not only was I raised in a time where adults said things like “children weren’t to be seen or heard,” but my own mother told me she wished she’d aborted me, and my biological father—while rarely in the picture—made sure that when he was there, there was plenty of violence to make each interaction memorable. I learned young it was best to be as invisible as I could be.

So I devoured books.

My appetite for books helped me do fairly well in school, but I struggled in certain subjects, such as history. On history tests, I had a hard time answering questions that required essay-type responses. I was expected to interpret facts, remember dates, and explain cause and effect or reasoning.

I didn’t want to do that.

I wanted to create my own stories—my own versions of history that had little to do with history at all.

I thought I wanted to birth characters who had their own thoughts and opinions and were capable of anything and everything. Now, I know I was trying to write a better life than the one I was living.

Naturally, I started dreaming that maybe I could be a writer. I scribbled thoughts and ideas in journals and notebooks. I told myself I had to be secretive about my writing because someone might try to steal it. Really, I didn’t share because I worried my words were stupid, that no one would care about what I wrote.

“You’ll never make a living writing.”

My stepdad’s words, when I told him I wanted to pursue Creative Writing in college, crushed me. I didn’t argue. I didn’t protest. He was an adult. He must have known better. After all, I was still a child, and I wasn’t supposed to be seen or heard, right?

I studied Accounting and got sad.

I stopped writing and got sadder.

I got married and got even sadder.

I got divorced.

I started therapy.

The approach my therapist suggested to deal with my problems was writing letters. I wrote letters to my younger self. I wrote letters to my mom’s younger self from my younger self, and another to her from who I am now. She would have me read the letters, and we would discuss whatever had come up.

After my fifth or sixth letter and our discussion of patterns or issues or feelings, she said, “I really enjoy listening to your letters. I like how you express yourself—how sometimes you make ugly situations seem beautiful with your words. Have you ever thought of becoming a writer?”

“I wanted to be a writer,” I confessed. “I used to write. I still have all these notebooks.”

“Why did you stop?” Before I could answer, she changed her question to a statement. “Whoever told you you couldn’t be a writer was wrong.”

In November 2025, I decided to create an account on vocal.media. Oddly, when I entered my email, it said I already had an account, which I didn’t remember creating. I reset the password and, after selecting my super-secret password I use for practically every website in existence, I saw my profile picture—and that I had created the account in 2017.

2017 was a blur. It still is. I was still married. One day, my then-husband tried to strangle our daughter. I was able to pry him off and told her to run, to leave. She did. Her boyfriend’s family took her in, and later Julie—his mom—called to tell me I was welcome at their house too.

I can’t remember if I read anything on Vocal in 2017, but I know I didn’t post anything.

I didn’t post immediately when I rediscovered it either. I started by reading. It was overwhelming—some days it still is. There are so many amazing writers, brilliant storytellers.

One creator I couldn’t get enough of right away was Harper Lewis. I don’t know if that’s her real name, but I’m always thrilled when I see the notification that she’s published something new.

In early December, I decided to enter a challenge—my first one. The Small Heat Challenge. I wrote a haiku called “At the Buena Vista” (https://vocal.media/poets/at-the-buena-vista). I didn’t tell anybody I knew that I entered—not my daughters, not my friends. I didn’t even tell my therapist because what if she had only said those things to make me feel good about myself.

The day the results were posted, I wasn’t in the top five, so technically I wasn’t a winner.

But I was a runner-up.

Which meant I was in the top 20.

I think there were over 800 entries. Over 800. And “At the Buena Vista” was one of the top 20.

Of course, I would have liked to win. Winning feels good. But I was content—no, that’s not right–I was proud. I am still proud of that runner-up status because there were so many incredible entries. I read the winners, the runner-ups, the honorable mentions—so much talent.

And while being a runner-up felt like a win, something else stayed with me more.

A comment.

A comment from a stranger. From someone whose writing I admire. Someone I hope, someday, to be as good as.

Since then, we’ve commented on each other’s work. Harper has given me advice, made suggestions, and has been so kind and supportive.

Now sometimes, I tell people that I’m a writer.