The reality is this: it’s lonely. Extraordinary, but lonely.

Maybe the same is not true for fiction pieces – maybe it is – but for nonfiction, specifically about my own life, finishing this labor of love is lonely.

When I began writing my manuscript two and half years ago, I was overwhelmed by the excitement of beginning a new project; one that I was sure, if I could complete, would be the proudest work of my life so far. I remember the exact time I knew I was going to embark on this project. I was sitting on an airplane, headed to Atlanta for a work trip and subsequent visit with my mom, reading some of the letters used in my book, letting my brain run free on how I would tackle this book and tell my story.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to write a book. In all sorts of notebooks and dream journals scattered across different moments in time, circumstances, and ages, I have written in ink that I will one day write a book. But I also wrote this ambition next to “I’ll one day be the President of the United States,” and “I’ll be the Editor-In-Chief of a magazine in New York city.” Since I have a better chance of getting struck by lightening than becoming the president, and have never lived in New York city, I would say writing a book was the most reasonable. Though, I’ll let you know for sure in a few years.

For as long as I have dreamed of writing a book, I have been on a mission to discover my “purpose.” And for a long time, I have associated this with my writing ability and affinity. Shuffling letters in my lap on the plane ride to Atlanta, I was certain that my purpose had been defined and for once, captured and understood – I was going to be an author.

But since writing my debut narrative nonfiction, Dear Everyone, I have realized that my purpose is not authorship; authorship is a means to discovering my purpose. It is a gift that I have implored to get to know myself better than ever before. And a chance to start a conversation with other women about the core struggles we all face, and unfortunately, hide from.

When writing about yourself and your own life, it is lonely. It is hard, belaboring, emotional, and completely alone. All the things you push away over a lifetime, all the moments of fear and heartbreak you bury, all the traumatic moments of watching your family dissolve before you that you’ve turned a blind eye to, it all has to come back up.

It has been somewhat like watching a movie. Replaying my worst and most troublesome days in my head, digging up memories I willed away, and more than that, having to lean into each of those moments to feel them again, as if it were the first time.

It took longer than expected. Like most things in life, I thought I could breeze through it. I believed that just because I could write thousands of words a day, it would translate to a powerful and honest display. I was wrong. After writing half of my manuscript, I scrapped it and began again, because simply recounting and recollecting my life was not enough to make it mean something.

Knowing that I was writing partially about my own story, in conjunction with the 60 discovered letters from 1963, I struggled to believe that my story mattered. I suffered a lot of imposter syndrome; a lot of second-guessing myself; a lot of asking myself “who in the world will care?”

But then I realized, that if I wrote honestly, holding nothing back, that this book would be more for me than anyone else, and in turn, it would mean something to others. I have never believed that people will care because the story is about Henley. My hope is that it will mean something because it is real, and therefore relatable, and therefore necessary.

Beyond the imposter syndrome, I really had to dig in – I had to relive my greatest pains. And when I thought that was difficult, it was nothing compared to writing about and exposing the very real, minute-by-minute heartache of a story unfolding right in front me.

I am thankful for writing. I wondered when the project would end – I wondered how I would arrive at the conclusion. Initially, I had a plan – a beginning, middle, and end. But when the words started writing themselves in the form of real-time loss, grief, and heartbreak, I knew that I was going to be “in it” for much longer than I initially planned. Suddenly, I was writing my book as it was revealed to me with each passing day, and I knew that only life and healing could tell me when it was over.

Writing helped me grieve through what was happening right before me – so much so, that its cathartic, therapeutic nature left me lonely when I finished.

The other side of writing a manuscript is lonely, because you’re so ready to celebrate this massive, sometimes seemingly insurmountable accomplishment of a book that no one else in the world knows anything about. I stood there on the other side of my life’s greatest work – professionally, personally, emotionally – by myself. Friends brought me flowers, my husband cheered for me over Prosecco, but no one in the world understood the excavation of self, the emotional labor, and the grief that was released in the writing of pages that no one has ever read.

And as quickly as my internal excitement came to be finished with my project, it left, only leaving me with one question: “What the f*** do I do now?”

Beta readers have reviewed my work, given feedback, and made suggestions. I’ve sent hundreds of queries to book agents. Received conflicting opinions from multiple published authors on what to do next. Met with several hybrid publishers to get an idea of costs and investments and timelines. Spent hours of research on publishing houses, the industry, and read the thousands of social posts and blog articles about the impossibilities of “making it” as an author. Taken suggestions on what products to create and what topics to discuss in a podcast. All in the midst of tearing apart my own work, considering edits, and trying to create a following for a character who does not exist or mean anything to most people.

And all of that, my friends, is lonely.

Exhilarating.

Exciting.

Extraordinary.

But lonely.