Steward your Calling
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a racecar driver.
I grew up at the dirt track where my dad raced (and crashed) all different types of cars. Even though there were very few women on the track, I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t be the next one behind the wheel.
Until I got a dirt bike.
I was eight.
Fearless.
Without limits.
My dad taught me how to shift by standing about 100 yards away from me with his arms raised above his head. When it was time to shift, he’d drop his arms. It didn’t take me long to learn the timing.
And then I was off—on my own.
Which was all well and good.
Until it wasn’t.
Running Wide Open
I had a strong dislike for brakes.
If I wasn’t running wide open, what was the point?
Right?
Wrong.
I was flying along the creek in that same field, weeds high on either side, when I forgot about a small outcrop near the water’s edge.
I hit it.
Wide open.
And I flew off that motorcycle like Superwoman herself.
I don’t remember much after that.
It was the ’80s.
There was no blood.
Just a concussion and a chipped tooth.
Allegedly.
While I felt this incident clearly proved I was destined to be a race car driver, my parents had very strong opinions that it proved the opposite.
They were probably right.
Calling Isn’t the Same as Craft
So why am I telling you embarrassing stories about my childhood?
Because some of us have dreamed of being writers since we were barely old enough to write. And the rest of us grew into this calling slowly, over time.
Regardless of how we arrived here, the responsibility is the same:
To hone our craft.
To improve.
To keep learning.
It didn’t take me long to learn how to shift on that dirt bike. And it definitely didn’t take me long to learn how to run it wide open as fast as it could go.
But it took time—real time—to learn how to read my environment.
To recognize risks.
To understand when speed needed restraint.
That didn’t happen overnight.
It happened with practice.
With learning.
With experience.
Writing is no different.
Talent Is a Gift. Stewardship Is a Practice.
I’m going to be honest—sometimes we lean so heavily on the idea of being called to write that we forget something important:
Being an author still requires work.
A lot of it.
Yes, we may have God-given talent.
But stewarding God-given talent is another thing altogether.
Full disclosure: when I look back at my earliest blog posts, I cringe. Hard. To the point of wanting to delete them entirely.
At the time, I thought they were great.
Years later, I can see how unorganized they were. How they lacked structure. How I danced around hard topics instead of addressing them head-on.
I could craft beautiful sentences—but I wasn’t saying anything that mattered yet.
Signs of Growth
I didn’t improve by waiting.
I improved by practicing.
By reading other people’s work.
By learning.
By writing anyway.
And I still have growing to do.
I always will.
But I had to start somewhere.
I had to actually be writing.
And publishing.
So many writers sacrifice this part of the process because they’re waiting for clarity, confidence, or perfection.
Authorly friends—your words matter.
Even the imperfect ones.
They matter for you.
They matter for your readers.
Start the Substack.
Post on social media.
Steward your calling.
Hone your craft.
A few years from now—after you’ve published a book or two, posted consistently, and have a stack of old work behind you—you’ll look back and cringe a little.
I can almost guarantee it.
Don’t delete it.
Let it remind you how far you’ve come.
Reflection Questions
Where have you confused calling with competence?
What part of your writing are you avoiding because it still feels unpolished?
When you look at your early work, do you feel shame—or evidence of growth?
What would it look like to honor your future voice by publishing today?
Don’t wait until tomorrow.
Don’t wait until it’s perfect—it never will be.
Embrace your authorly self today.
Write today.
Publish something tomorrow.
And if you’re willing, tell me in the comments:
What did starting look like for you?
Or—if you’re still standing at the edge—what’s keeping your foot on the brake?
I write in two spaces. A Seat at the Table is where I explore faith, healing, and making room for honesty after it’s been made complicated. Ink & Intention is for writers who want to show up with clarity, discernment, and integrity—especially online.
I’m also the author of Breathing Again and several guided journals, and I work with writers who want thoughtful, grounded support as they find their voice and shape what comes next.
If something here resonated, you’re welcome to explore more at your own pace. You can find everything in one place here.
