The Girl Who Refused To Break

Chapter 6: My First Attempt

The next morning, I woke up thinking about one thing.

My first step.

I picked up my phone before I even got out of bed.

The screen was filled with the searches I had made the night before. Writing. Editing. Freelancing. Online work. Different skills I had never seriously considered before.

I stared at them for a while.

There was something strange about looking for a way to change your life when you didn't even know where to begin.

Everyone online seemed to have a success story.

Someone had started with nothing.

Someone had learned a skill in three months.

Someone had made money from their phone.

Someone else had turned a small idea into a business.

I wanted to believe those stories.

But I also knew that people didn't always show the difficult parts.

Nobody posted about the nights they felt lost.

Nobody talked much about failed attempts.

Nobody showed how many times they had tried before something finally worked.

So I decided I wouldn't compare my beginning to someone else's middle.

I would simply start.

I chose writing.

Maybe it wasn't the most obvious choice.

But I had always loved stories.

Even when I was younger, I could sit quietly and create entire situations in my head.

Different people.

Different lives.

Different endings.

Writing gave me somewhere to put all those thoughts.

So I opened a document and began.

The first few paragraphs felt terrible.

I deleted them.

Started again.

Deleted those too.

Started again.

At one point, I stared at the screen and laughed.

"Who told me I could do this?"

But instead of closing the document, I kept going.

I wrote.

Then I edited.

Then I read it again.

It wasn't perfect.

Not even close.

But it was mine.

That small achievement made me strangely happy.

For once, I wasn't just dreaming about becoming successful.

I was actually doing something.

Days passed.

I continued learning whenever I had time.

I watched tutorials.

I read about writing.

I tried different styles.

Sometimes I understood what I was doing.

Sometimes I didn't.

There were moments when I felt like I was wasting my time.

What if nobody ever paid me?

What if I wasn't good enough?

What if I spent months learning and still got nowhere?

Those questions followed me everywhere.

But I kept reminding myself that I wouldn't know unless I tried.

Eventually, I found an opportunity that looked promising.

My heart started beating faster as I read through the requirements.

Maybe this could be my beginning.

I imagined receiving my first payment.

It wouldn't even have to be a huge amount.

I just wanted proof that I could earn something with my own effort.

I submitted my work.

Then I waited.

The waiting was worse than I expected.

Every time I checked my phone, I hoped there would be a message.

Nothing.

I checked again.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

I tried to distract myself, but my mind kept returning to it.

Then the response finally came.

I opened it immediately.

And my heart sank.

It wasn't what I wanted to hear.

I had been rejected.

I stared at the screen.

For a few seconds, I didn't move.

Then I put my phone down.

I felt disappointed.

Not because I had expected everything to work on the first attempt, but because I had secretly hoped that maybe this would be different.

Maybe this would be the beginning.

Maybe I would finally have something to tell my mother.

Instead, I had another rejection.

I sat quietly for a while.

Then I remembered something.

I had spent years being told, directly or indirectly, that certain things weren't possible for me.

I couldn't allow one rejection to become another voice telling me to stop.

So I picked up my phone again.

I read the rejection carefully.

Instead of only looking at the word no, I looked for what I could learn from it.

What had I done wrong?

What could I improve?

What did other writers know that I didn't?

I wrote down the answers.

Then I opened a new document.

I started again.

This time, I wasn't trying to prove that I was already good.

I was trying to become better.

That difference mattered.

I was beginning to understand that success wasn't going to arrive because I needed it badly.

I had to work for it.

I had to learn.

I had to accept rejection.

I had to improve.

And most importantly, I had to keep showing up.

That night, I told my mother about the rejection.

I expected her to be disappointed.

Instead, she simply looked at me and said, "At least you tried."

I smiled.

She was right.

I had tried.

And tomorrow, I would try again.

Maybe my first attempt wouldn't change my life.

Maybe my tenth wouldn't either.

But someday, one of those attempts might.

I didn't need to know exactly when.

I just needed to keep moving.

I opened my laptop—or rather, my phone—and began working on another story.

This time, I wasn't thinking about proving anyone wrong.

I was thinking about the girl I wanted to become.

And for the first time, I could see her clearly.

She was independent.

She was educated.

She was successful.

She could take care of herself.

She could look back at the life she had lived without being ashamed of where she came from.

I wasn't that girl yet.

But I was becoming her.

One attempt at a time.