Did I Make the Right Choice?

My wife chose education.

She chose the long nights of coursework and spreadsheets, the nerve-rattling presentations, and the empty notebooks slowly filled with formulas, theory, and case studies. She chose the outcome. The goal. The degree. Then the next one. And the next, until she found an end. First, an MBA. Then, a doctorate–the period at the end of the sentence.

She has earned rest, the pause, the title, and the letters after her name. She has earned my quiet awe in the miraculous woman that she is.

And I?

I chose stories.

Not by accident—but not with certainty either. I could have pursued a doctorate. I know I have the chops. But that is not where the fire ignited. Mine was a tale of return, a phoenix rise, a circling back to something that called to me when I was younger. I told myself it was time. That if I didn’t do it now, I never would. That crafting a world from nothing, populating it with broken people, and asking them hard questions—that mattered. That it would matter to someone else, too. I love the written word and what it allows me to create.

While she chased a finish line, I chased a feeling. A flicker of language that sounded true. A line of dialogue that bled. A chapter that echoed long after it ended. And there is joy in that—but it’s different from a diploma, ceremony, or applause in a crowded room.

It doesn’t come with a salary bump or recognition. Sometimes, it comes with nothing at all.

We toiled together, I at my desk and she at hers. We paused in our fevered pursuits to ask each other questions, try out ideas, share a struggle, laugh (argued), knowing we were in this together. The work was different—she filled her pages with citations and case studies, mine with ghosts and broken kingdoms—but the drive felt the same. Exhaustion met exhaustion. Doubt met doubt. And in those shared silences, there was comfort. There was a purpose.

And for her, it has led to something clear—something finished. She has the outcome—she has the finale. She will soon step across the threshold and hear her name spoken with reverence. The frame for the accomplishment is already prepared, and a space is waiting.

I still sit at the threshold with stories in my hands—left behind, not by her, but by the structure of our paths. She crossed into something finished, honored, seen. And I remain here, in the afterglow, watching the dust settle around me, wondering if the work I’ve given years to will ever bring me across a line even half as clear. This may seem like jealousy. It’s not, it’s human.

Although I am thrilled for her, I wonder—did I make the right choice?

Because the truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever get a finale. I don’t know if there’s a destination in this line of work. Maybe that separates writing from almost everything else—the finish lines are hazy, shifting. You can sell a book, win an award, sign a deal, and still feel like nothing’s finished. Like nothing has truly arrived.

Maybe the goal isn’t recognition. Perhaps it’s just the hope that someone, somewhere, is reading one of your stories and feels less alone.

But it’s hard not to grieve what I’ll likely never have: a precise moment of arrival, a terminal degree, a ceremony, a single defining event that would let my wife look at me the way I looked at her, full of pride, awe, and relief. I doubt I can ever accomplish something in this field that will mean to her what her doctorate means to me.

And that makes me feel small, tired, and, at times, like I am shouting into a vast and indifferent wind.

Stories finish, but the compulsion doesn’t. I write and push with an ending in sight, but the work continues when I reach the finish. The edits, the revisions, the rewrites. Then, the queries, the rejections, the doubt. Finally, one way or another, the story steps into the world—sometimes with a turn of the head, a few times with applause, but often in silence- like I didn’t do anything at all.

Finishing a story may seem like an end, especially if those words are typed on the last page, but it’s a lie because then comes the marketing, the promotion, the desperate call to others to buy this thing. And then, suddenly, the muse whispers again, and I type “Chapter One” once more.

Not because I believe it will make her proud. Not because it will lead to acclaim. But, after all the torture, I still don’t know how to stop.

And if you’ve read this far—if any of this sits with you—then maybe you’ve walked a road like mine. Maybe you’re still walking it. And if that’s true, then perhaps the stories I’ve written will mean something to you, too. Because I harness these feelings. It is where the raw truth sits.

My stories are not about heroes. They’re about people who fall short, carry on, and try again. They’re about uncertainty, endurance, and the thin thread of belief that there’s value in telling the truth—even when the world meets it with silence.

You can find them here.

And yet, there’s something else I can’t ignore.

As I sit in this quiet and reflect on what she’s achieved, I feel it—my pride, my awe, the overwhelming respect I have for her. And I realize: in marriage, her finish line is not hers alone. I’ve walked beside her. Shared in the hardship. Cheered from the shadows. And now, as she crosses into rest and celebration, I feel it too—that arrival. That breath. That joy.

Maybe I’ll get my own. Maybe I won’t. But I am not really alone. She will help me hold onto the hope. And when my end does come—whatever shape it takes—she’ll be there to meet me in it, with joy, pause, and love.

That, too, is a kind of success.

Cheers.