I never thought I would be the kind of person who enters writing contests on purpose. For years, I only wrote little notes in the margins of student essays, like, "Try a clearer verb," or, "This part makes me smile." I taught kids how to write, but in a strange way, I stopped doing it myself. I guess I thought being a teacher meant my own writing had to wait.
Then one of my students, Mia, posted a short story online and said she won third place in something called the Cedar Lane Story Award. It was small, run by a local group, but she was glowing. She said the judges gave her feedback that felt kind and real. I felt proud of her. But later that night, when I was washing dishes, it hit me: I could not remember the last time I had finished something just for myself.
So I tried a contest too. I did not jump in with a big one. I went for something simple. The theme was called Moments of Change. It felt small and doable, like a warm-up stretch before a long walk. I sat at my desk late that night after a long day of grading. The hallway light hummed. My mug of tea was cold. But I wrote. The words felt stiff at first, like my brain creaked when it tried to move, but I kept going.
When I hit submit, I felt silly. I also felt a little alive.
Losing Is Not the Scary Part
At first, I told myself I was just dipping my toe in. I did not expect anything. But a small part of me hoped someone out there might read my story and understand what I was trying to say. When the results came in, I did not place. Not even close.
But the funny thing is, losing did not hurt at all. Instead, I felt a kind of relief. My world did not explode. No one laughed at me. I did not get any harsh emails saying, "What were you thinking?" The sky stayed the same color. My life kept going. I guess I needed to see that nothing bad happens when you try and do not win.
It reminded me of those middle school field days where the teacher hands out ribbons to everyone. Back then, I rolled my eyes at the whole idea. But now I understand it a little better. Sometimes the point is not winning. Sometimes the point is reminding yourself that you still have legs and can move.
Why I Keep Entering Even When I Know I Might Lose Again
After that first contest, I tried another. And another. And a funny thing happened. I did not win any of them, but I started writing more than I had in years. I found myself thinking about scenes while waiting in the school pickup line. I scribbled down ideas on sticky notes between tutor sessions. I even started carrying a tiny notebook in my bag because ideas kept hitting me at random times, like in the bread aisle or in the car wash line.
Entering contests gave me something I did not expect: momentum.
When I write for a contest, it feels like someone is saving me a seat at a table. It is almost like saying, "Hey Julia, you have a reason to show up this week. Do not forget." Even if I lose, the showing up part still counts. It might even count more.
Before contests, I told myself I would write when things slowed down. But life never slows down. If anything, it gets louder. Contests gave me a shape to write inside. A little box with a deadline and a theme. Sometimes that is all you need.
Feedback Changes You In Ways You Do Not Expect
One of the best surprises of joining contests was the feedback. Not every contest gives it. But the ones that do are worth their weight in gold.
I remember one judge saying, "Your middle section feels honest, but the end feels shy." That line stuck with me for days. It felt so true. I was scared to write the ending I wanted, so I wrote a safe one instead. Reading that comment made me face something about myself. My writing was not weak. It was scared.
Another comment said, "I could see the kitchen scene clearly." And that one warmed me. It reminded me why I loved writing in the first place. I like small moments. I like quiet people doing quiet things. I like the feeling of standing in a room and sensing the story in the air.
Feedback did not just help my writing. It helped my voice. It made me braver. It taught me that the things I care about are allowed to be on the page.
The Strange Comfort of Deadlines
I used to think deadlines were the enemy. Students always groaned about them. I groaned too, but inside my head. When I first started entering contests, the deadlines felt like a timer ticking loudly next to my brain. But after a few rounds, I started to like the sound.
Deadlines became a kind of promise. A way to tell myself, "Finish one small thing this month. Just one. No matter what else happens."
Some months I barely made it. Some months I had to rewrite the ending at 11:45 p.m. on a Tuesday. One time I submitted a piece while sitting in my car outside the dentist office. But every time I hit submit, I felt a spark. That tiny spark kept me writing through some very tired weeks.
Writing Contests Became a Secret Classroom
Even though I teach writing, entering contests made me feel like a student again. I learned more from losing than from any of the wins I dreamed of. I learned how other writers think. I learned how people interpret themes. I learned to trust a messy first draft. And I learned that I still want to get better, even in my thirties, even with a full schedule, even when life feels heavy.
One contest asked for a 300-word flash story about a moment of courage. I wrote about my grandmother standing in her backyard during a thunderstorm. That story felt like opening a door I had forgotten was there. Another contest wanted a letter to your younger self. That one made me cry in a quiet, good way.
Contests turned into tiny classrooms scattered across my month. Each one taught me something new.
Losing Still Stings Sometimes, But I Keep Going
I will be honest. There are nights when losing still stings. A little voice says, "Why bother?" But then I remember something one of my students said after bombing a big test. She shrugged and said, "Well, I tried. That has to count for something."
It does. Trying counts. Showing up counts. Putting a piece of yourself on the page counts. Writing contests gave me a place to practice courage over and over, even when I felt shaky.
I do not chase trophies. I do not chase rankings. I chase the feeling of movement. The feeling of learning. The feeling of being a writer again, even if I am not perfect at it.
Why You Might Want To Try It Too
If you are stuck, scared, busy, overwhelmed, bored, rusty, or curious, contests can help. They help because they give you something to aim at. They help because they remind you that writing is meant to be shared, not locked in a drawer. They help because they show you other writers who are growing at the same time as you.
You do not have to win. You just have to show up. The rest works itself out.
I did not expect contests to change how I see my own ideas. I used to think my thoughts were too small or too simple. I would jot something down and then cross it out because it did not feel “big” enough. But the more contests I entered, the more I realized that small ideas can carry the most weight. A story about a quiet moment in a grocery store. A memory of someone tying their shoes before school. A simple conversation on a rainy morning. These things matter. They fill a page. They hold truth in a way I had forgotten.
One contest asked for a story that took place in one room. I picked my childhood bedroom, with the blue rug I used to trace with my toes before falling asleep. Writing that piece felt like opening an old photo album. I remembered the chipped dresser, the squeaky fan, and the morning light that always came in sideways. I did not win, but I felt something shift. Sometimes contests give you the excuse to visit old parts of yourself.
Another thing I noticed is that contests taught me how to finish things. Before I started doing them, I had a dozen half-written stories sitting in a folder. They were all abandoned at the same point: right when things got tricky. But deadlines pushed me past that moment. I had to choose an ending, even if it scared me. And finishing feels like building a muscle. The more you do it, the easier it gets.
One night, I almost talked myself out of submitting something. I told myself it was not good enough. I even closed my laptop. But then I remembered how many times I told students, “Just turn it in. You might surprise yourself.” It felt silly to not take my own advice. So I opened the laptop again and hit submit. I did not place, but I felt proud of myself for not running away from the last step.
Contests also made me pay attention to the world more. I started noticing the way people talk in the hallway outside my tutoring room. I noticed the nervous tapping of pencils, the little celebrations when students figured out a sentence, the way sunlight hit the whiteboard around 3 p.m. I wrote down more details than I ever had before. It made my days feel fuller, like life wanted to be written about.
I think contests wake up something inside you. Not competition. Not ego. Something else. Something like curiosity. Something like wonder. Something like that feeling you had as a kid when you opened a blank notebook and felt excited instead of scared.
Now, when I lose, I do not close the door. I just look for the next theme, the next prompt, the next chance to stretch myself. Losing stopped meaning failure. It started meaning I get to try again. And honestly, I think that is one of the best feelings a writer can have.
So I keep entering. Month after month. Not because I expect a trophy, but because writing contests remind me to show up. They remind me to be brave. They remind me that my voice still works, even when it trembles a little.
If you want to try a contest, or even just peek at one, here is where I started. I found a site full of writing contests and used it as the push I needed to begin.
This is where things started turning around for me, one small step at a time.
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