Brave Enough

Reflections on the Jackalope Card & my Leap of Faith

Oct 31, 2025

This is Part 3 of a 3-part series. If you missed the earlier parts, you can read Part 1 and Part 2.

Happy Halloween and blessed Samhain.

It feels fitting to publish this final piece in this mini-series today—a day when we honor what’s been and what’s coming, when we stand at the threshold between the old year and the new.

That’s exactly where I am with my writing—at a threshold deciding how to step through.

As I shared in my last blog, I’ve gone through life hearing many different people’s opinions about my writing—most of them really complex. Rediscovering my own creativity and stepping fully back into claiming my voice as a writer has been really tender and vulnerable over the last five years.

So today, I want to talk about bravery.

The Jackalope’s Leap of Faith

Last night, I drew another card about my relationship with writing. I asked, “How do I bravely step into being my writer self?”

The card that came up made me laugh the moment I saw it: the Jackalope.

It felt like such a leap of faith—literally. Here was a card featuring a creature widely considered mythical, asking me to believe in the impossible, to trust in stories that persist across cultures and centuries.

I loved it immediately. It was perfect.

The Jackalope represents belief and appreciation of the unknown. This mythological creature appears in folklore all over the world—from the Wixárika people in Mexico to the single-horned Al-Mi’raj of Iranian myth. The card reminded me that this creature has existed through storytelling for centuries and constantly ignites the imagination of storytellers through the present day.

But the shadow reading was my warning call: “The shadow of the jackalope card is belief and imagination taken to excess. You may become lost in your own dream world and forget to come back down to Earth.”

There is the truth. I can dream all I want about being a full-time author, about my stories changing lives, and about building a career from my words. But if I never bring those dreams down to Earth—if I never actually market, never actually ask people to consider my work, and never actually step into the practical reality of being a working writer—then I’m just hiding in fantasy.

The Gap Between Wanting and Asking

The Raven showed me I’ve been keeping secrets. The Wolf reminded me to trust my instincts and choose my path. But there’s still one piece I haven’t fully addressed—the piece that keeps me from actually, tangibly, consistently sharing my work with the world.

It’s not just fear of rejection or fear of being seen.

It’s the specific, visceral terror of asking people to pay for my words.

When I think of people reading my words for free, I light up. I feel warmth radiating from my heart.

But when I think of people paying to read my work? I feel even more excitement. I feel like I’m being resourced by my greatest joy, and it creates this full-body sense of alignment and rightness.

So why is it so terrifying to actually do it? To post about my books? To say, “Hey, this exists and you can buy it”?

The desire itself makes perfect sense. I want to be supported in doing this work. I want my writing to sustain me so I can dedicate my life to it. I want to stop working three other jobs so I can focus on what my soul came here to do.

But there’s this massive gap between wanting it and doing it. Between knowing my work has value and actually saying so out loud, in public, where people can see me claiming that value.

That’s the shadow of the Jackalope, isn’t it? Getting lost in the dream world instead of bringing it down to Earth.

This summer, I participated in a book club right as I was finishing writing The Wind Sings Sorrow. When Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic came into my hands, it both lifted me up and made me want to run away at once. She wrote many lovely and wonderful things, much of which I agreed with. But then she started to sound like my mom when I was a kid.

Gilbert discourages people from pursuing writing as any form of career, which I do understand. It can complicate it. Make it feel like a chore. It’s not sustainable. I totally get the need to build up over time—which means taking steps to do so.

But it also brought up that fear again because I do want to be resourced by my writing.

That is my deepest call—for people to stand behind me and believe in me and/or my words.

To write “full time.”

I want to write more than I want to do anything else in life, except maybe breathe, eat, and sleep.

I know I need to own my magic. That’s what I must be brave enough to continue to do. That’s my leap of faith.

When People Believed Before I Did

I stepped into bravery earlier this year and something happened that still makes me cry when I think about it.

I was preparing to publish The Wind Sings Sorrow. I was still working on implementing the beta draft feedback. I was just starting to get the cover designed. The book wasn’t even finished yet—not completely.

And I did something terrifying: I asked for money.

I opened up pre-orders and told people, “This book is coming. It’s not done yet, but it’s coming, and if you believe in me and want to support this dream, you can pay in advance.”

Over 20 people said yes.

Let me give you context for why this absolutely shattered me in a really good way.

I am entirely grassroots. I have no funding. I don’t have money from my family. I don’t have outside financial support. I paid my own way through college. I have scraped for every little ounce of anything I’ve had for the majority of my life except for the down payment on the house I had to sell after only four years.

For other people—people with their own bills, their own struggles, and their own financial stress—to look at me and say, “Yes, I’m willing to contribute to you seeing this dream come true. Yes, I believe in you and your work enough to pay you before the book even exists”—

That lit me up like a fucking firework.

Even now, as I write this, I feel tears rising. My chest is trembling. Because it means so much to me to be seen for who I have always known myself to be deep down: a writer. An author. Someone whose stories matter.

But there is still a scared little part of me wondering—what if I’m wrong? What if those 20+ people were just being nice? What if no one else ever buys another book?

Really the question is—What if I fail to be brave?

The Real Fear Beneath the Fear

Is it silly to say it’s the marketing that terrifies me? Not because I don’t believe in my work (I do), and not because I don’t want to be paid (I do).

What I’m actually afraid of is simpler and more practical, at least I like to think:

— I’m afraid that marketing will take so much of my time and attention that I won’t have time for writing.

— I’m afraid I won’t be seen again after I put myself out there because I’m already shadow banned on Facebook for using terms like queer and patriarchy (lol).

— I’m afraid I’m an imposter or people will misunderstand me sharing my work to be narcissistic, salesy, etc etc… (this is the really silly part, honestly)

But there’s another layer to this fear that I need to name:

— I fear upsetting the wrong people because of my revolutionary voice, the themes I confront in my work.

As an intense trauma survivor, I still get scared there are more people like the Reaper out there who will read what I have to say and target me. People who will see themselves in my antagonists and come for me. People who will be threatened by the truths my stories tell about power, abuse, and the problems with humanity.

But even if that is a possibility—even if it’s likely—I would rather write than silence myself.

I would rather be brave than pre-comply or be inauthentic.

These fears are all based on limiting stories, of course—the stories that got planted when I was told I wasn’t good enough, when I was told I wouldn’t make it, and when I was told my characters were too different and unrelatable.

For the most part, those scared parts of me don’t get to run the show. I witness them and love them and do my best to keep moving forward.

I am brave.

I do share my words.

I just showed up for a full 31-day blog challenge and shared something every day, even when I was terrified.

I’m currently running an event where I sharing revolutionary wisdom every day through voice and/or writing for eight days.

I’ve gotten my books into the hands of people who’ve told me those stories changed them for life.

And that’s why the Jackalope came to me last night—to remind me that belief isn’t enough. I have to bring it down to Earth. I have to do the practical work of marketing, of asking, and of showing up consistently even when it’s hard.

*One of my early readers and supporters, my friend Coco Madari, artist and coach! (Photo provided with permission.)*

Stepping Through

I’m still learning how to market and share my work without feeling gross or terrified.

I’m still learning how to harmonize the business side with the creative side and not let the fear of the business sabotage the creative.

I’m still figuring out how to say, “Hey, this is worth your money and time and might even change something in you” without feeling like I’m taking time away from the actual writing.

I’m learning each day and doing the damn thing anyway.

The truth is, as I’ve implied and probably said so concretely before, I would like to dedicate my life to writing. The only way to do that is to let it resource me. To let people support my work. To stop writing in a vacuum and start building the reciprocity I long for—where people read my words and share some words back, where their words inspire my words, and where we co-create together.

I’m not alone anymore, and I get to write. <3

The Journey of Three Cards

Looking back at this series, I’m struck by the journey these three cards have taken me on:

The Raven showed me I’ve been keeping secrets, hiding my work from the light. The Raven represents my past—all those years of silence, of writing in secret, of protecting my stories (and myself) from exposure.

The Wolf reminded me to trust my instincts and choose my path, to remember that I’m no longer alone. The Wolf represents my present—learning to trust my pack, recognizing that I have supporters now, and understanding that my instinct to write is valid and true.

The Jackalope asks me to believe in the impossible and bring that belief down to Earth. The Jackalope represents my future—the one I’m stepping into right now. The future where I claim my identity as a working author, where I let my stories live in the world, and where I trust that belief and imagination can become real through action.

The Raven asked me why I was hiding. The Wolf told me to trust and choose. And the Jackalope is saying: believe, and make it real.

So here I am, on Samhain, at the threshold between what was and what will be—between the Raven’s secrets, the Wolf’s truth, and the Jackalope’s impossible becoming possible.

I know I’ll always be a little scared. That’s part of who I am. But I’m stepping through onto my path anyway.

This is the dream of my heart and my soul, and I will not give up on myself.

Whatever your dream is, whatever your hope is, I hope you won’t give up on yourself either.

I hope we’ll keep encouraging each other to be fully ourselves and to cheer each other on through all of it.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading. Thank you for believing that our stories matter.

Let’s be brave together.

Still Loving You Fiercely,
Safrianna Lughna
aka AJ Eastwood

The Queer-Spirit Chronicles with Safrianna

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