I was five years old when the first Star Wars movie came out in theaters. Just to be clear, when I say the “first” Star Wars movie, I mean the 1977 release. Not the remastered rerelease. Not the prequel. I mean the first official Star Wars movie to ever be projected onto the big screen, before the subtitle “Episode IV—A New Hope” was even added. My two older brothers and I stood in line at the 99¢ theater, enjoying the spectacle of fans dressed as various Star Wars characters, reveling in the excitement of this once-in-a-lifetime, cultural event.

We all know now that this was just the beginning of what would become a trilogy and, eventually, an extended franchise. Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, and Princess Leia may have become heroes by the end of the movie, but the story wasn’t over. In fact, it was about to take a much darker turn in The Empire Strikes Back (my personal favorite). The Rebels’ celebration of victory after destroying the Death Star was just a breather before the next epic battle with the Empire, dangerous encounter with forces of nature, and existential confrontation with inner demons.

This got me thinking: If Han Solo had decided to write a memoir right after the destruction of the Death Star, would he have been able to properly market his book in the months and years that followed its publication? Would he have been able to stage a planetary book tour of that far, far away galaxy in hopes of increasing book sales to pay off his gambling debt? I’m guessing no. He was a little busy escaping the ice planet Hoth, escaping the belly of a giant space slug, and not escaping being captured by a bounty hunter. Indeed, being frozen in carbonite might make it a bit challenging to be a guest speaker on a panel at an interstellar authors’ convention.

This is the reality I face as a non-traditionally published author trying to market my book about raising a child with autism, while continuing to fight the everyday battles of raising a now teenager with autism.

At the time when I put the finishing touches on my book, My Alternate Universe: Anxiety, Autism, and Adventure in a Parallel Reality, my family and I were in a pretty good place. My son was making progress in his highly specialized program for children with severe autism. We were sticking to a pretty good routine at home. He was sleeping through most nights. During this “breather” I basked in the victory of manuscript completion and allowed myself to dream of what it would be like to be a published author. I imagined I would arrange book signings and podcast interviews. I would purchase vendor spaces at various autism workshops and author events. Maybe I would offer myself as a guest speaker for parent support groups and PTAs.

Indeed, I did a few of these things right after my book release during that post-victory breathing space. I had a library reading and book signing. I did a few podcast interviews. But then the blissful lull between adventures came to an end. The next episode of our saga continued with one harrowing battle and narrow escape after another. A teenage growth spurt and the onset of puberty led to frequent, high-intensity meltdowns and self-injury. Changes in medications to ease anxiety and aggression led to unforeseen and distressing side effects and an emergency room visit. Another switch in medications helped get us back on track somewhat. But, for our boy and his parents, the intense stress and sleepless nights continued for months.

Maybe this whole ordeal is not technically comparable with outrunning a Star Destroyer only to end up in the belly of a galactic beast, but it certainly felt that way at the time. These events alone would be enough to derail even the most dedicated author’s marketing plans.

Then I was frozen in carbonite.

Call it self-doubt. Call it imposter syndrome. Despite the pleasant epilogue of my book in which my husband, son, and I roll our figurative poop ball, dung beetle style, into the sunset, I realize now that I was, and still am, very much “in it” up to my eyeballs.

As a result, I’ve been frozen: What advice can I possibly offer to other parents? What knowledge or wisdom or hope can I possibly share? I mean…wouldn’t people expect me to be more put together than I really am?

Through self-reflection I’ve started to get myself unfrozen. The truth is, it was never my intention to offer advice when I started writing. I was simply telling my story, one blog post at a time, hoping to connect with others in a meaningful way.

What’s more, there is no claim of victory at the end of my book, no exploding Death Star. The image of our little family rolling our personal poop ball into an unknown future implies the journey is incomplete. Yes, I’m still “in it,” with stories yet to be told. To be continued… That’s how life is.

Yet moving beyond my self-doubt and getting out there as an author still feels daunting and overwhelming—there’s so little time available between the adrenaline-filled action sequences of daily life. Honestly, this introvert would much rather spend her precious time meditating in a swamp, levitating rocks, and strengthening her connection to The Force. (Bonus if a Muppet is involved.)

And maybe that’s what I really need right now anyway—to use those quiet moments to center myself and recharge my batteries. After all, Han Solo would surely be forgiven for not immediately enacting his book-marketing plan after being freed from cryogenic hibernation, what with all the chaos in the galaxy at the time. My galaxy is pretty chaotic, too, so I suppose I can cut myself a little slack. I’ll do what I can, when I can…ever aware that my current adventures might make great material for the next installment of my franchise, should I be so bold.