The second time worked.

What a writers retreat in Kentucky taught me about words, waiting, and not giving up.

I almost didn’t apply a second time. After all, how many rejections turn into a happy ending? But something about this writing retreat—an all-expenses paid five days in beautiful Stanford, Kentucky—wouldn’t leave me alone. So . . .

I applied again.

I submitted a fresh 50+ page sample, revisited the three-hour long application, and hit “send” while keeping my fingers crossed.

I hadn’t been accepted the year before.
I had no idea if I’d be accepted now.

Except . . . I was. There were only fourteen of us who received that happy acceptance email. A small cohort that left a big impact.

Welcome to Stanford! Home of the GoodLit Writers Retreat.

I didn’t know what to expect as I packed my suitcase and loaded everything into my car. If I’m honest—I left town frazzled and a little bleary-eyed. Between summer travels, freelance project deadlines, and trying to #adult well . . . my tank was empty.

To some, that might sound like the perfect time for a retreat. (And God—in His goodness—knew what I needed even if I didn’t.) Because I’d had big plans for this retreat! I wanted to make the most out of every second. Showing up on empty had not been part of my plan.

My plan had looked a lot like this . . .

• Make a good impression (Remember: I’d already been rejected once. I wanted them to be glad they let me in! 😅)

• Be early for every. single. event.

• Have my best writing week ever.

• Get career advice to help me level up.

• Make connections within the writing community.

Here’s what actually happened . . .

• I asked a lot of questions.

• I almost missed the opening reception because I got stuck in 2 hours of unexpected traffic.

• I didn’t work on my manuscript at all.

• I rested. I shopped. I spent time outside.

• I ate good food around a table of new friends.

Our group ate every meal together. Here’s us at our favorite breakfast spot. Then me enjoying the rocking chairs with a view of downtown Stanford.

Turns out, I didn’t need a plan. I just needed to be present.

Over those five days, I learned a few other things too . . .

I learned to slow down.

I spent hours outside. I lingered at mealtimes. I wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere. I didn’t have any sort of word count goals and I didn’t log my writing hours.

I didn’t answer any emails. I kept my phone on silent. I went to bed on time.

And it was enough. Just being was enough.

I learned it was okay to be taken care of.

Real life for me looks like this: Making sure there’s food in the fridge and gas in my car. That the bills are paid and the lawn guy shows up on time. That the client gets the file and my sister’s birthday present is delivered.

And that’s the short list.

But that week, all I had to do was show up. Someone else had thought through the menu and made the food. Someone else came to tidy my room while I was away. My car stayed parked in the garage all week long—no reason to move it.

I hadn’t been taken care of like that in a really, really long time.

I’d forgotten what a gift it is.

The GoodLit Class of 2025!

I learned God really does work in mysterious ways.

I thought I knew why I didn’t get in the year before. After all, the timing was better this year. My manuscript was in a better place. It wasn’t a “no” from God, just a “not yet.”

Until . . . I had my one-on-one with the retreat’s writing mentor.

“This isn’t YA writing,” he tells me as I sit down at the table. “This is just good writing.”

Of all the things I had expected him to say—that wasn’t it. Not from a New York Times author and professor of English at a well-known university.

“Thank you.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, uncertain how to ask my next question. “Why the distinction? About YA writing?”

Because I may be biased—but YA can and should be good writing. For some, it’s their earliest exposure to books.

It’s also the age where kids either fall more in love with reading—become lifers—or books start to lose their appeal as they struggle to keep up with classwork.

It’s important writing.
It’s not for the faint of heart.

And in this season—it’s what I’m doing.

“Well,” he tells me. “Because technically we don’t accept YA or children’s writers for this retreat.”

🎶 CUE DRAMATIC MUSIC 🎶

Here’s the thing, y’all. I’m not a rule breaker. And while my genre wasn’t on the “preferred” list when I applied, I didn’t remember seeing anything saying I was ineligible.

It had never occurred to me that I wasn’t supposed to be there.

It hadn’t occurred to me that there was a legitimate reason why no one else in my cohort was writing children’s or YA.

It hadn’t occurred to me that God made a way when there wasn’t one.

But He had. He wanted me there, and so He made a way. He made an exception to the rules. The first one that I know of in the 10-year history of this retreat.

“Look,” the writing mentor leans forward in his seat. “I read your writing—it’s really good. Strong characters, compelling story, and I thought . . . you deserve to be here.”

You deserve to be here.

Words I’ll remember the next time I feel like giving up. Or when the next rejection letter comes. Or when I wonder how things are going to work out.

Because God made a way.
And He wants to make a way for you too.

So friend, don’t stop praying for the breakthrough. Don’t stop showing up. Don’t stop applying (or reapplying 😉).

God’s still at work. You’re not forgotten. What feels like a “no,” might just be a “not now.”

He can open doors that look closed.
He can turn setbacks into setups.
He is working for your good.

Even if it doesn’t feel like it. Even if you can’t see the evidence of it yet.

If that feels too hard to believe right now, that’s okay. I’ll be here—believing for you until you can believe it for yourself.

Because you deserve that. ❤️
—Rachel