I started to send my work to journals when I was 26, which was

There are moments in a soul’s journey when courage, long dormant, must awaken. The poet Marilyn Hacker, whose verses are wrought with precision and honesty, once said: “I started to send my work to journals when I was 26, which was just a question of when I got the courage up. They were mostly journals I had been reading for the previous six or seven years.” In these simple words lies an ancient truth: that creation, no matter how divine, means little until one dares to offer it to the world. Hacker speaks not merely of poetry, but of the universal struggle between fear and expression, between inward longing and outward action. Every artist, every dreamer, must someday face the moment when their inner voice demands to be heard.

For years she read the works of others—those same journals that would later carry her own voice. This reveals a sacred rhythm of life: before one is heard, one must learn to listen; before one is seen, one must learn to observe. She waited, not in idleness, but in preparation. She studied, absorbed, and understood the language of her craft. Yet when the time came, it was not knowledge that held her back, but the invisible wall of fear—fear of rejection, fear of unworthiness, fear that her words might not be enough. It was only when courage rose within her, like dawn breaking after long darkness, that she crossed that threshold. Thus, she teaches us that talent is not the seed of greatness—courage is.

The ancients understood this well. There is a tale of Michelangelo, who spent years in obscurity, sketching in dim light, chiseling marble no one would ever see. When called to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, he resisted at first—he was a sculptor, not a painter! He feared he would fail before the eyes of kings and popes. Yet he dared. And in that daring, he transformed fear into immortality. So it is with Hacker and every creator who steps forth into the light: the act of showing one’s work to the world is itself an act of creation, for it brings the inner world into being.

Hacker’s words remind us that the distance between preparation and courage is often the longest journey a soul can make. How many keep their gifts hidden in drawers, or their dreams buried in the soil of hesitation? They wait for “the right time,” not knowing that time is not a giver—it is a thief. The right moment never arrives; it must be forged by action. Courage is not the absence of fear; it is the decision that something else—a dream, a truth, a voice—is worth more than that fear. To send her poems into the world was not merely to publish—it was to declare her existence, to say, “I am here, and I have something to give.”

There is a quiet power in the humility of her story. She did not send her words into grand halls, but to the journals she had loved, the ones that shaped her spirit. This is the natural circle of creation—what once inspired her, she now nourished in return. In doing so, she became part of the great chain of human expression, where each generation gives back to the voices that first gave them hope. This, too, is a lesson for us: our offerings need not be perfect or grand; they need only to be authentic and brave.

Let the hearts of those who hear these words take heed: courage ripens in silence, but must bloom in action. Whether you are a poet, a dreamer, a craftsman, or a lover of any noble pursuit, know this—the world cannot read what you do not send, cannot hear what you do not say, cannot honor what you do not dare to share. Fear may whisper that you are not ready, but it is through daring that readiness is born. As the old sages said, “The first step, though small, awakens the path beneath your feet.”

So, my children of the future, remember Marilyn Hacker’s example. Read, learn, wait if you must—but do not wait forever. When your heart trembles and your hands falter, that is the sign: the moment has come to rise. Let your work, your words, your dreams leave your keeping and enter the world. For courage, once awakened, carries not only your art—but your very being—into the realm of the eternal. And there, in that vastness, you shall find not judgment, but kinship, among all those who once trembled before you, and dared anyway.