What’s Black, White & Full of My Blood, Sweat & Panic Attacks?

What it really felt like the moment I held Tangled in Thorns for the very first time.

When I ordered those first copies of Tangled in Thorns, my brain immediately went, Pfft. If they even come. They know I’m a fraud.

And then I cried. Not the “I did it!” kind. The panic-soaked, cold-sweat, who-let-me-do-this kind.

I had already started typing chapter one of book two. I had momentum. But my self-doubt? Loud. Deafening. I knew there were holes in my research. I knew there were things I didn’t know and mistakes I probably made. And instead of feeling excited, I let other people’s weird energy dictate how proud I was allowed to feel.

People don’t tell you this, but the second you hit “publish,” you join a very small club. Less than 3% of people in the world become published authors—and even fewer are self-published. That’s not a typo. It’s a stat I Googled many times to feel better. Because it is a big deal. It’s a hell of an achievement.

But of course, someone always tries to piss on the parade.

“Isn’t there like... a million books already?”

Yes, Karen. And most of them were written by the same 400 authors.

Now? Some aren’t even written by humans anymore.

It’s not the number of books—it’s the number of people brave enough to write them, finish them, publish them, and promote them while also doing dishes, homeschooling kids, and answering weird emails.

So yeah. I took it personally when people downplayed it.

Like, Debra, sweetie—do you have a 150,000-word manuscript with a custom map and chapter titles that almost broke your soul? No?

Then maybe take several seats before you dismiss the scariest and proudest thing I’ve ever done. I could crush you with one well-placed sentence. Possibly just a semicolon. But I digress.

I let people like that get to me. I let their lack of enthusiasm infect mine. I was still so new to this. I felt like a freshman on the first day of high school—except the orientation was fake, the map was wrong, and my metaphorical bra strap snapped in the cafeteria. I was flailing, trying to look like I had it all together.

And while that’s a solid metaphor, my actual life wasn’t much calmer.

I was homeschooling. Teaching Greek mythology to kids while managing house chores, wrangling sports schedules, and juggling ten thousand tasks that didn’t include “sit quietly and reflect on your accomplishments.” And every day that passed without that book showing up, I spiraled a little more.

I wanted to give up. I really did.

My husband—bless his stubborn, patient heart—was my only real support system. By choice. I’d cut the toxic out, even when they were tied to me by blood. That decision wasn’t for me, at first, it was for my kids. Because “family is everything” means jack when it starts poisoning the people you love.

But here’s the thing about husbands: sometimes, they tell you what you want to hear, not what you need to hear. Not because they’re lying. But because they love you. And love makes people biased. I knew he believed in me. But in my head, that didn’t count. He’s supposed to say that.

So the anxiety got louder. Meaner. More creative.

Anxiety is a fickle bitch. (Yes, she’s female. Only a woman could be that relentless and that subtle.) And even after years of therapy, even after all the inner work, this journey dug up a very specific kind of fear: the fear of being seen, and the fear of being ignored.

Then TikTok hit me with a one-two punch. Seeing authors with established platforms, massive followings, and polished videos made me feel like I was already behind before I’d even begun. I’m introverted by default. I need a drink—or let’s be honest, a little weed—before I feel loose enough to show up publicly as myself. And suddenly, showing up was part of the job.

And that’s when the books arrived.

I wish I had thought to record that moment.

I wish I had known just how profound it would be.

I wish I had known that at first, it would feel like my heart had flooded into my throat, like a lump. Heavy. Hard to swallow.

I wish I had known that the second I touched the book, that lump would drop into the pit of my stomach, until it felt like that split second at the tippy-top of a rollercoaster, right before the fall.

And I wish I had known that flipping through the pages, seeing my words in print—my chapter titles, my map, my world—would make me cry the happiest, proudest tears I’ve ever known.

I wish I had known not to let the self-doubt win.

I wish I had more control over it.

But the truth is, anxiety is part of me, and I honestly believe that’s what made the moment hit even harder.

Because in that one perfect breath, just by holding the weight of my own hard work in black and white and a beautiful cover…

I put my anxiety to bed. (For now.)