Practice Season: From License Number to ISBN

There was a time when my name was printed in small, thin letters on a cosmetology license.

Under my name was a number.
A license number.

It proved I passed the exam.
It proved I was authorized.
It proved I was registered.

I remember feeling lucky. Accomplished. Validated.

But that license stayed tucked away in a wallet.
Folded. Hidden.
And it had to be renewed.

If I didn’t maintain it, it would expire.
My name was attached to something temporary.

Now my name is printed on a book cover.

Not small. Not thin.
Bold. Visible. Open.

And under this work?
There’s another number.

An ISBN.

Not a license number assigned to regulate me —
but an ISBN assigned to locate my voice in the world.

A cosmetology license number says:
“You are approved to practice.”

An ISBN says:
“This work exists. It is cataloged. It can be found.”

One number was about permission.
The other is about permanence.

The license number could lapse.
The ISBN does not expire.

The license meant I passed.
The ISBN means I published.

I never really used that cosmetology license. It was proof of discipline, proof that I could finish something. And I’m grateful for that season.

But now?

My name isn’t just attached to authorization.
It’s attached to authorship.

And there’s something powerful about that shift.

A license number registers you with a state.
An ISBN registers your story with the world.

That cosmetology season wasn’t a mistake. It was practice. Practice seeing my name printed. Practice completing something official. Practice believing I could do hard things.

But this book?

This is legacy.

Licenses must be renewed.
Stories do not.

And this time, my name isn’t tucked in a wallet.

It’s on a cover.
With a number that says:
This exists.

Forever.
“Summer Seasons & Divine Patterns”

It just hit me.

I got my cosmetology license in the summer.

And I published my book in the summer.

I was 25 when I earned my license.

And I published my book in 2025.

The same season.
The same number.
Different elevation.

Summer has always been a season of unveiling for me.

Summer is not quiet.
It’s not hidden.
It’s not cold or dormant.

It’s bright.
It’s visible.
It’s bold.

At 25, I proved I could pass a test.

In 2025, I proved I could tell the truth.

At 25, I received a license number.

In 2025, I received an ISBN.

At 25, my name was printed small and official.

In 2025, my name was printed boldly and permanent.

One summer gave me validation.
Another summer gave me voice.

And maybe that first summer wasn’t random.

Maybe it was rehearsal.

Maybe God let me see my name attached to something structured and official so I wouldn’t be intimidated years later when my name was attached to something eternal.

25 was preparation.

2025 was proclamation.

Same heat.
Different harvest.

And I can’t help but smile at the pattern.

Because nothing about that feels accidental.