There is something beautifully unexpected about writing children’s picture books.
Before I began this journey, I imagined the challenge would be finding the right story.
Instead, it has been learning the art of refinement.
Over the past few months, I’ve been immersed in picture book manuscripts.
On paper, they’re only around 500 words each.
In reality, they’ve represented hundreds of hours of reading, questioning, rewriting and beginning again.
I’ve read them aloud more times than I can count.
I’ve wrestled with page turns.
Moved a sentence from one page to another.
Changed a single word.
Then changed it back.
I’ve discovered that writing for children isn’t about saying more.
It’s about saying exactly enough.
That process has reminded me of something I often see in wellbeing.
When we’re struggling, our instinct is usually to add.
Another book.
Another podcast.
Another morning routine.
Another thing we hope will finally make us feel better.
But growth doesn’t always come from adding, sometimes it comes from refining.
From noticing what no longer belongs.
In writing, it might be an unnecessary sentence that interrupts the rhythm of a story.
In life, it might be an expectation we’ve carried for years without ever questioning whether it was ours to carry.
It could be an old belief.
A habit that once protected us.
A story we’ve continued telling ourselves long after it stopped being true.
The work is surprisingly similar.
Not creating someone new.
Revealing what has been there all along.
One of the most valuable lessons writing has taught me is that progress often looks incredibly ordinary.
It looks like reading the same manuscript for the fiftieth time.
Removing one word.
Realising you’ve made the story stronger.
Then walking away for a day because you’ve reached the point where trying harder no longer helps.
There’s wisdom in stepping back.
Fresh eyes notice things tired eyes cannot.
I think the same is true of life.
We’re often so determined to solve everything immediately that we forget the value of space.
Space to breathe, to reflect and to allow clarity to arrive instead of forcing it.
Recently, I submitted my first picture book to my mentor for assessment.
For the first time in months, there were no more edits to make, no more words to move and no more commas to question.
Just waiting.
As someone who likes to be productive, waiting can feel surprisingly uncomfortable.
There’s nothing to fix or control.
Only trust.
Trust in the work. in the process and that I’ve learned what I needed to learn from these stories, regardless of what happens next.
Perhaps that’s the real lesson writing has been teaching me.
Not simply how to tell a better story.
But how to become more comfortable with uncertainty.
To recognise that not every season of growth is a season of doing.
Some seasons ask us to refine.
Others ask us to release.
And sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is simply wait.
Thank you for spending a few moments with me. I hope this reflection gave you space to pause, breathe a little deeper, and perhaps see something in your own life a little differently.
TULLY XO