My books are owed to the professor who, in the first few weeks of my college experience, managed to make an 18-year-old girl feel so small, so humiliated, that she dropped the one class she was most excited about. Congratulations—you inspired me in spite of yourself.

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I was shy. I was hopeful. I signed up for a small writing class—not because I thought I was great, but because I wanted to get better. I was eager to learn, to grow, to be mentored. I was naive enough to believe that most professors were there to help you find your voice, not snuff it out.

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He didn’t even say my name. He just held up my paper—my very first assignment—and read it aloud to the class as an example of how not to write. I didn’t need him to say it was mine. Everyone knew. My face burned as the words I’d carefully strung together were dissected with mockery, not guidance.

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I dropped the class the next day, but I didn’t drop the dream.

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In the weeks and months that followed, I asked myself why someone with the power to teach would choose to shame. I never found a good answer. But I did find something else: resolve.

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Instead of formal classes, I turned to books, the ones that pulled me into their worlds, that made me feel seen, that taught me more about writing than any lecture ever could. I studied the authors I admired. I soaked up their rhythms, their characters, their quiet brilliance. I read everything I could get my hands on, not as a student being graded, but as someone in love with the written word.

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So here I am, years later, publishing my third book—not because I was told I could, but because I decided I would.

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I didn’t publish these books to make money. I published them because writing one—just one—was a lifelong goal. And once I started, I couldn’t stop.

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Am I a perfect writer? No.

Am I published? Hell yes.

Am I proud? You bet I am!
 

To the reader: My stories are for you. If you’ve ever been told you weren’t good enough, smart enough, or talented enough—forget them. You don’t need their permission. You get to decide who you are and what you create. And to the great professors out there, the ones who show up with heart and patience, thank you. You may be going through the motions of your daily routine, unaware, but somewhere out there is a young student hanging on every word, craving to learn, hoping for someone like you to believe in them. Please keep showing up. You're changing lives, even when you don’t realize it.

 

And to that professor—turns out, I never needed your approval.

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Look what I did without you.
~ Juliet Lind

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