It’s almost Christmas, and I keep finding myself pausing in the middle of ordinary moments — folding laundry, washing dishes, staring out the window — because something inside me feels full in a way I didn’t expect.
My books are selling on Amazon.
Not viral. Not headline-worthy. Just… real. Real people, somewhere out there, choosing something I made. And at 53 years old, that feels like a miracle I didn’t even know how to pray for.
This is the best Christmas gift I never expected.
I think it hits me so deeply because this didn’t come easily. It came after years of restarting. After starting late. After learning everything the hard way. After nights when I sat alone at my computer trying to understand things like margins, uploads, and what a flattened PDF even is — usually at 2 a.m., usually while doubting myself, usually wondering if I was foolish to try.
I built this quietly. Slowly. Piece by piece.
No roadmap. No shortcuts. Just persistence.
And maybe that’s why it hurt more than I anticipated when someone tried to claim my success.
Not because I need applause.
Not because I need credit shouted from rooftops.
But because it mattered to me that this was mine.
Real help, I’ve learned, doesn’t announce itself.
My own kids — my flesh and blood — helped me without ever needing recognition.
One bought my books with her own money, just to support me.
One is creating a video for my TikTok or social media because she believes in what I’m doing.
Others listened to me ramble and rant while I tried to teach myself KDP from scratch, nodding patiently while I learned out loud.
They never told anyone.
They never needed to.
They just stood beside me.
That kind of help leaves fingerprints on your heart, not your ego.
And then there are moments when someone else — a grown man, removed from the work, removed from the nights of learning and failing — decides to say he “helped,” not to me, but to someone whose approval he desperately wanted. As if proximity could substitute for effort. As if my story could be gently rewritten without my consent.
I won’t pretend that didn’t hurt.
It did.
Because this wasn’t just about books.
It was about dignity.
It was about finally seeing something bloom after years of planting in rocky soil.
What grounded me again was remembering why I did this in the first place.
My three-year-old grandson is obsessed with flags. Truly obsessed. He’s memorized more than I ever knew existed. He studies them with the kind of wonder that makes you believe curiosity is sacred. Watching him light up made me want to leave him something — something made with intention, patience, and love.
So I created a World Flags series for him.
Seven continents condensed into five books. Filled with flags, activities, and fun facts — designed for kids, but honest enough that even adults learn something new. I learned alongside him as I made them. Every page was a small act of devotion.
Are they perfect? No.
Will they grow and evolve? Yes.
But they exist.
And that matters more than perfection ever could.
This feels like legacy work — the kind you don’t fully understand until you’re living it. Work that says, I was here. I tried. I created something with my hands and my heart.
When I’m gone one day, my kids and grandkids will have something tangible to remember me by. Not just stories. Not just memories. Something they can hold.
And that — that is worth everything.
Yes, it hurts when people try to claim your success.
But it also clarifies who truly walked with you in the dark.
And right now, in this season, I am choosing to hold onto the love, not the noise.
If you’d like to see the World Flags series I created for my grandson — and for curious little (and big) minds everywhere — you can find it here:
👉Amazon link to the 5-book World Flags series
Digital versions will be coming soon to Etsy and Gumroad. I’m not done yet.
This 53-year-old grandma is still learning.
Still building.
Still dreaming.
And this Christmas, for the first time in a long time, I feel proud of what I’ve made.
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