She opened her laptop like someone bracing for something. The kind of ache that didn't come from heartbreak this time but from hope.
This wasn't about him.
It was about her future now.
Grad school. Fellowships. Content gigs. Scholarships.
She was applying for anything that could give her a soft landing. A place where her words could go farther than just healing pain. Somewhere, they could build something.
Her CV wasn't packed, but it had soul.
Freelance work. Ghostwriting. Blog posts. Journaling. Things that taught her how to write with heart, not just for pretty words, but for truth.
She didn't have fancy awards.
But she had lived through things.
She had clarity, depth, and a voice that didn't flinch anymore.
In her personal statements, she never mentioned Muir directly. But his shadow was there, in every line about starting again, about healing, about learning who she was outside of pain.
She wrote:
I've learned that some stories don't begin with success. They start with a fall. I'm someone learning to rebuild. I don't want perfect stories. I want real ones.
Every time she clicked submit, she said the same thing under her breath:
Let what's mine find me.
She made a spreadsheet to keep track of things:
🟩 Applied
🟨 Still working on it
🟥 Ghosted, but maybe not forever
Some rejections didn't hurt as much as she thought.
Some came with kind words that stayed with her. Things like:
Your voice stayed with us.
Your story was honest and soft in the best way.
That was what mattered. Not just getting in.
But showing up for herself.
Each application felt like a little promise,
One step closer to the life she wanted.
A life where writing didn't just heal her. It moved people. It paid bills. It opened doors.
Nia peeked at her screen one night and laughed,
Are you applying to write for the whole world?
And honestly? Maybe she was.
Because for once, it didn't feel like begging.
It felt like offering.
And what she had to offer was beautiful.
Not every application got a reply.
But some did.
Some nights she would stay up late refreshing her inbox, not expecting anything urgent but just holding on to the kind of hope that refuses to die.
She imagined it often:
An email that said,
We loved your story. Come tell it here.
She started reading articles like - How to Move Abroad as a Writer and Visa Options for Creatives.
Germany. Canada. The Netherlands.
Tabs open. Heart open.
Then one morning, it happened.
We would love to feature your essay in our next issue. The way you write about healing, it moved something in us.
It was not just application season anymore.
It was her becoming season.
Quiet. Soft. But steady.
And it was only the beginning.