I think if I hadn't been a writer, I'd have been a teacher like

Meg Cabot, the teller of stories beloved by many, once confessed: “I think if I hadn’t been a writer, I’d have been a teacher like my dad. He was a college professor, and one of my greatest regrets is that he passed away before I was able to prove to him that I wasn’t going to be stuck working at Rax Roast Beef for the rest of my life!” These words strike with both tenderness and sorrow, for they carry the weight of love, aspiration, and the ache of unfinished recognition. In them we hear not only the journey of a writer but the universal longing of a child to be seen, understood, and honored by a parent.

The origin of this reflection lies in Cabot’s early life. Before she was known as the author of The Princess Diaries and countless other works, she labored in humble jobs, uncertain of her path. To the outside world, it may have seemed she was destined for obscurity. Her father, a man of letters, stood as a towering figure of learning, and his daughter feared disappointing him. Yet within her grew the seed of story, waiting for its hour to bloom. That seed would, in time, bear fruit that nourished the imaginations of millions. But her regret, tender and piercing, is that her father did not live to see it.

History is filled with such tales of unrecognized greatness. Think of Vincent van Gogh, whose art today commands awe and reverence, yet in his lifetime was dismissed, sold scarcely at all, and unvalued by the world he longed to move. He died in obscurity, never seeing the generations who would rise to declare his genius. Or consider Galileo, condemned in his own day, yet remembered now as the father of modern science. Both lived with the burden of not being seen by those whose recognition they most sought. Cabot’s lament joins this ancient chorus, reminding us of the bittersweet truth: we cannot always prove our worth to those we love in time.

And yet, there is a heroic beauty in her words. For even in regret, she reveals the power of persistence and transformation. She did not remain at Rax Roast Beef. She did not surrender her dreams to despair. Instead, she fought for her gift, honed her craft, and in time emerged as one of the most successful writers of her era. The father may not have lived to see it, but the world did, and his legacy as a teacher flows through her, for every book she has written is a lesson of its own.

The meaning of her confession is thus twofold: first, that we must honor those we love with the pursuit of our highest selves, whether or not they live to witness it. Second, that we must not allow the fear of others’ doubt—or even their absence—to bind us. Greatness is not diminished by the lack of witnesses. If the work is true, it speaks even to the silent heavens.

What, then, is the lesson for us? It is this: do not wait endlessly for approval before you begin. Do not measure your worth by the eyes that see you now. Begin the work, pursue the calling, and let the fruit of your labor speak in its own season. If you long for recognition from those who are gone, let their memory be the fire that drives you, not the chain that holds you back.

Practically, commit yourself each day to your craft—whether it be teaching, writing, building, or healing. Set aside the fear of obscurity and remember that unseen labor often becomes the root of visible glory. Share your gifts with others, as Cabot’s books now reach hearts across the world, even though her father could not hold them in his hands. In doing so, you honor both yourself and those who shaped you, living or departed.

Thus, Cabot’s words endure as both confession and teaching: do not despise humble beginnings, do not surrender to fear, and do not wait for permission to prove yourself. Even if those you love cannot see your triumph, live so that the world—and history itself—will. For the greatest honor you can give to your teachers, your parents, and your ancestors is not merely to follow their path, but to rise upon it into a life that testifies: I did not remain in the shadows—I carried your flame into the light.