It’s Never Too Late To Chase Your Dream

When I attended Princeton, Toni Morrison and Joyce Carol Oates taught creative writing, but despite the appeal of learning from such renowned authors, I was afraid to seize the opportunity. I had always believed that being a good writer was an innate trait, similar to having an ear for music. I arrived at school convinced I knew my strengths, but in my mind, that didn’t include creative writing. Because I’d spent a year in Ecuador before college, I majored in anthropology with a concentration in Latin American studies.

After graduating, I sat in a movie theater in San Francisco watching Shakespeare in Love. I simultaneously fell in love with Joseph Fiennes and the art of filmmaking. The movie made me laugh, cry, and yearn for a love as passionate as Fiennes’ Shakespeare. But mostly, I wanted to evoke similar emotions from an audience. I moved to Los Angeles, set up multiple interviews, and ultimately took the first position offered at Creative Artists Agency as an assistant to an agent. Eventually, I landed a job working for a producer on the Warner Bros. lot. At first, I loved the job. I spent my days reading scripts, talking to writers, and helping them develop their stories into something we could persuade the studio to buy.

But collaborating with other writers fueled my desire to tell my own stories instead of developing someone else’s. I’ve always loved second-chance stories, so I spent weeks working on my idea about a Wall Street investment banker who is forced to start over after a major car accident. For the first time, I showed my writing to someone else. An agent. He read it within a week and called me. I thought, “This is it — my breakthrough moment.” I sat on his couch, unable to hear my thoughts over my pounding heart. He held the script in his hand, then placed it on the table between us.

“Have you ever considered writing a novel?” he asked. He didn’t intend to discourage me. His points were valid. He explained that my screenplay had too much backstory and too many long, descriptive paragraphs. But he encouraged me to rewrite it as a novel. I left his office feeling dejected.

For years, I didn’t attempt to write again. I returned to graduate school and earned a doctorate in physical therapy at the age of 35. The decision combined my love of exercise and the desire to help other people. Eventually, I chose to work mainly with older patients who cannot leave their homes because of medical issues. I love working with this group because, besides being compliant with their exercises, they enjoy sharing stories. They talk about their youth or times when their bodies moved without pain. I also hear about first loves, last loves, long careers, and the ups and downs of raising children. But more than anything, my patients love to lament missed opportunities.

The most common advice I hear from them is, “Don’t get old.” I usually smile and say, “Better than the alternative.”

They also often say, “Do it while you still can.” It has referred to many things — running, traveling, or telling someone I love them. Hearing those words from people with more experience than I have resonates every time.

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Just before I turned 40, I finally took my patients’ advice to heart. I wrote an essay about how I met my husband and the trials and tribulations of dating in the time of texting. On a whim, I sent it to the editor of The New York Times’ “Modern Love” column. A week later, I received an email from him saying, “I like this.” It was published about a month later. I thought I had made it, believing I could use that success as an entrée into the elusive writing world — that an agent would ride in on a white horse. In reality, no one banged my door down. There wasn’t even a tap at the window. However, that editor’s three words boosted my confidence. I wrote several more essays and submitted them. Each acceptance for publication provided validation and encouragement to continue. And then, I remembered the agent from all those years ago who suggested I write a novel. He saw something in me then that I was finally willing to acknowledge.

So, I wrote a novel. It will never see the light of day, but it proved to me that I could write one. Then I wrote a second one, and another. I felt confident about the third novel, so I submitted it to agents and received numerous rejections. But, if I’d learned nothing else, it was this: I had nothing to lose if I kept going. Several more essays found homes in different publications, and I published my first short story about mending a multigenerational relationship through a trip to the beach in The Avenue Journal in January 2025.

The long journey here has been filled with many roadblocks and dead ends, but my debut novel, Gap Year, will be released in February 2026, about a woman at a crossroads in her life who reinvents herself during an adult version of a gap year. I couldn’t be prouder, not only of this book, but also of finding the strength and courage to persevere.

As an adult, years after my time at Princeton, I now realize that trying something and possibly failing is not only OK, it’s the best way to learn. I should have started writing back then. I wish, with all my heart, that I had. But the point is, it’s never too late. Although I regret not pursuing creative writing at that time, I don’t regret my years at Princeton. I made lifelong friends, learned invaluable skills both socially and academically, and when I walked out of FitzRandolph Gate, I had a clearer idea of what I didn’t want to do with my life, even if I hadn’t chosen a specific path yet.

But once in a while, I wish I could have coffee with that girl who was just starting her journey at Princeton — and tell her, “You’re good enough. Just go for it.”