Cinderella—in college basketball, it’s the team nobody expects to survive. The underdog. The one without the size, the speed, or the spotlight, somehow takes down the giant.
Every year, that’s part of the magic of March Madness. We watch, hoping for that team—the one that wasn’t supposed to be there—to keep pushing, to keep winning, to finally be seen.
But this year, there is no Cinderella.
Every team left in the NCAA Men’s Basketball Championship when the dust settles—the Elite Eight, the Final Four—are exactly who we thought they’d be. Top-tier. Highly ranked. Built to win. And while that might take away some of the surprise, it doesn’t take away the intensity. When the best face the best, somebody great is still going home without a trophy.
And maybe that’s what’s been sitting with me lately.
Because when it comes to writing, I’ve always seen myself as a Cinderella. Not the favorite. Not the one with the big platform or built-in audience. Just someone trying to be seen. Trying to be heard. Trying to make something meaningful out of what I’ve been given.
But writing My Invisible Name feels different.
This isn’t just about being the underdog anymore. It’s about what it means to come from a place of feeling unseen… and still choosing to speak. Still choosing to put your story out there, even when it feels like nobody’s looking for it.
Because invisibility doesn’t always mean you’re not there. Sometimes it just means people aren’t looking close enough. Or maybe… it means you’re still in the cocoon.
Because nothing about a caterpillar suggests it will ever fly. Nothing about that stage looks impressive, or powerful, or worth watching. It’s slow. It’s hidden. It’s overlooked.
And then it disappears. Not to quit—but to transform.
That’s the tension I’ve been sitting in.
I’m not chasing fame. I’m not chasing money. I just want to reach people. I want something I write to stay with somebody—to make them feel seen in a way they didn’t before. But the road to that? It’s not easy.
Self-publishing is expensive. Time-consuming. Honestly, exhausting. Marketing can feel like yelling into empty space. Like you’re pouring everything you have into something that might not add up to anything.
Some days, it really does feel like I’m outside the ballroom… hearing the music, but not invited in. Or like I’m sealed inside something I can’t rush.
But then I think about those teams again.
Over 300 Division I programs start every season knowing only one will win it all. And still—they show up. Early mornings. Late nights. Practice. Film. Reps. Over and over again.
That’s what this writing life has become for me. Late-night typing. Cutting whole sections. Rewriting lines until they finally say what I meant the first time. Doubting it—but coming back to it anyway.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not always rewarding. But it’s real.
And maybe that’s what a Cinderella story actually is. Not the moment you finally get seen—but everything you do when you’re not. Cinderella’s story didn’t start at the ball. That’s just when people started paying attention.
Same with butterflies. Nobody celebrates the cocoon—but without it, there is no flight.
So yeah, maybe there’s no Cinderella in this year’s tournament. But I’m still writing my own Cinderella story. Not just on the page—but in the work, in the waiting, in the becoming…
Trusting that one day, what’s been hidden will finally take flight. And when it does, it won’t just be about being seen. It’ll be about how long I kept going when nobody was looking.