The sun crested the York River this morning at 5:59 AM, and I was there to meet it, rosewood ukulele slung across my shoulder, journal tucked under my arm. Same 9 PM bedtime, same sunrise ritual—rain or shine, whether I’m alone with my thoughts or surrounded by the Fourth of July crowd that descended on Yorktown Fishing Pier last week. The rhythm of my days has remained steady even as everything else has been in motion.

I’ve been absent from Writer’s Growth for a couple months now, but I haven’t been absent from growth or writing. While you’ve been living your summer, I’ve been living mine—one spent wielding a literary scalpel, cutting 30,000 words from my manuscript like a surgeon removing what no longer serves the body of my book.

The Art of Letting Go

You know that feeling when you’re hunting sea glass at Fort Monroe Beach? How you find a piece that catches the light just right, but when Tony runs his fingers over the edges, he says, “That’s not ready yet. Gotta send it back”? That’s been my summer—learning to throw beautiful pieces back into the sea so they can be smoothed into something even better.

My book started as two distinct stories: my personal journey with bipolar disorder and my calling to mental health advocacy. What I discovered in the editing trenches is that they were never meant to be separate. The clinical explanations that read like textbook passages? Gone. The detailed curriculum suggestions that belonged in an education manual? Saved for another day. What remains is what was always meant to be: my story of transformation, naturally woven with the insights and advocacy that grew from my lived experience.

The process has been both exhilarating and excruciating. There’s something humbling about realizing that 30,000 words you labored over—words that felt essential when you wrote them—were actually barriers between your reader and your truth. But there’s also something liberating about clarity, about finally seeing the book you were always meant to write.

Mornings at the Water’s Edge

Throughout this editing marathon, I’ve maintained my anchor: those pre-dawn drives to Yorktown Beach. There’s something about the rhythm of the water that grounds me, whether it’s the York River at sunrise or the Chesapeake Bay when Tony, Calista, and I wander the shoreline at Fort Monroe, searching for sea glass and practicing mindfulness. The waves keep their own schedule, indifferent to my manuscript woes, reminding me that some things endure while others must be reshaped.

I’ve filled page after page in my journal this summer, processing not just the cutting and crafting of my book, but the courage it takes to step into the next phase: reaching out for foreword writers, crafting endorsement requests, and pitching to agents and publishers. Each morning, as I watch the colors shift from deep blue to golden orange, I’ve been preparing myself for the vulnerability of putting this book—this piece of my soul—into the world.

The Nitty Gritty of Dreams

Here’s what the summer has really looked like behind the scenes: Early mornings rewriting chapters to flow like conversation rather than lecture. Afternoons crafting query letters that capture the heart of a story that’s part memoir, part advocacy guide, part love letter to anyone who’s ever felt broken by their own brain. Evenings researching agents who represent the intersection of mental health and faith, hoping to find the right person to champion a book about being “fearfully, wonderfully, and bipolar-ly made.”

There have been moments of doubt—usually around 8 PM when I’m second-guessing every cut I’ve made—and moments of pure joy, like when I realized that removing all that clinical material didn’t diminish the book’s power to help others. If anything, it amplified it. People don’t need another textbook about bipolar disorder; they need to see how someone like them learned to embrace their diagnosis and transform their shame into purpose.

What’s Next

The manuscript is tighter now, more focused, more honestly mine. It’s the story of how a teacher who spent decades helping others grow finally learned to grow herself—and how that journey led to helping others do the same. It’s about early mental health ambassadors and the power of authentic vulnerability. It’s about faith and marriage and the beautiful complexity of building a life when your brain works differently.

As I prepare to send this book into the world, I’m grateful for the rhythm of my days, for Tony’s steady presence, for Calista’s growing wisdom, and for the way the water continues to teach me about persistence and change. Some days the sea gives up its treasures easily; other days you walk the entire shoreline and find nothing but shells. But you keep walking, keep searching, keep trusting that the next tide might bring exactly what you need.

I’m back to regular posting now, ready to share not just the polished pieces but the process—the messy, beautiful work of becoming who you’re meant to be, one sunrise at a time.

What would you like to hear about next? Drop a comment here or find me on social media @laurajoyramos. The journey continues.