Once upon a time, I was a skinny, shy boy whose parents clung to a rung just below middle class. I was introspective, interested in intellectual things, much, much too clumsy to play sports, and not big enough to make an impression. I have never been particularly beautiful or funny, never quick enough to formulate witty repartee. In short, I’ve always been rather ordinary in most respects.

And yet… for whatever reason, I was somehow gravity that the playground bullies orbited around. When I was in second grade, this very mean little girl named Stormy discovered me. Every day she would come at me with her entourage to shove me and call me names like “pussy” and “freak.” She made fun of my home-cut hair, my unfashionable clothes, my small frame, whatever would elicit a laugh. I have never understood why it made her feel so good to make me feel so bad.

While I can only vaguely remember the content of Stormy’s taunts, I remember vividly how ashamed I was and the sick feeling that would arise in my gut whenever my little sister would threaten to tell my mom what was happening. What if all the things Stormy said about me were true and my mother, the person I loved the very most in the world, would suddenly see me for who and what I really was? A skinny, badly dressed, pathetic, wimpy… nobody. How could she ever love me if she knew the truth?

My little sister—bless her heart—has always been a fighter. She takes no crap. Eventually she did tell my mom. I can remember that conversation like it was yesterday. I can still feel my mother’s hands on my cheeks wiping away my tears, and I can hear her voice as she looked into my eyes and said, “The next time she calls you a pussy, you tell her ‘Well, at least I can walk. You have to roll.’”

Do you know why I remember those words so clearly? (Apart from the funny?) I remember them because of the love and acceptance in my mother’s eyes and the soft touch of her hands on my face. Even if Stormy thought I was worthless, my mother didn’t. In her eyes, I was somebody, and I was special. This is a lesson I carry with me today and every day of my life. One that I’m reminded of often in quiet moments with my daughter or my partner when I’ve had a particularly difficult day.

I often wonder what happened to Stormy. Do her cronies—those mean kids who laughed at her cruelty—stand beside her in her dark hours? Does that laughter sustain her the way my mother’s love raises me above the hurts and heartaches that life sometimes throws my way? Doubtful.

Why am I sharing this story?

I want this to serve as a reminder to my fellow authors that you are special. You are somebody. You are worthy of respect. Not everyone will love what you write, some people may even hate it, but there are others—many, many others—who will appreciate what you have achieved. It takes unbelievable courage to reach in, pull out a piece of your soul, and put it on paper for the world to examine. It takes heart, a lot of hard work, and countless hours filled with anxious dread.

I want to remind you—all of you—that there will come a moment when a reader reaches out, lifts your chin, and says, “thank you, you touched my heart.” That memory will last a lifetime. It will fill your heart and raise you up. And that, my friends, will be a precious, wonderful moment that the Stormys of the world will never know.

Remember this when the Stormys find you. Walk proudly along and let them roll on by.