Seven Nights, One Mountain: What Medicine Teaches About Querying

On fog, mountains, rejection, and finding light when you can’t see it

This essay was originally published by New Writers Welcome on Medium (November 2025). Read it on Medium here.

THIS MORNING, LOW fog shrouded the hospital. I know this because, with two minutes left in my shift, we got a MRT. MRT stands for Medical Response Team. It’s a page that goes out overhead for a medical emergency, to which I’m expected to respond. Usually, it’s in a patient room, but this morning, it was to the front entrance of the hospital.

I stepped outside and could barely see my hand in front of my face, the fog was so thick. Someone was waving through the mist — frantic, disembodied, almost ghostly. Next to them, on the ground, was a patient who’d just been discharged from the emergency department.

He was breathing but not responsive. We hoisted him onto a bed and whisked him back to the ED. I don’t know his name. I don’t know what happened to him next. That’s the nature of shift work — you step into someone’s crisis, do what you can, and then walk away before knowing the ending. Sometimes I think querying is like that, too. You send your work into the world, you hope it finds safe hands, but you don’t get to see what happens next.

On the drive home, I saw Massanutten, a familiar peak in my area — a mountain that anchors the skyline of the Shenandoah Valley. It’s a big skiing spot in the winter, a lush getaway in the summer. This morning, it fought to peek through the fog. The mountain looked tentative, faded at the edges, not quite sure it was allowed to be seen.

Kind of like that patient, trying to push through whatever felled him on the sidewalk this morning.

Kind of like me.

I got another rejection today. I’m getting used to it, or pretending I am. But it feels like I’m always in a fog, wondering if my inner sunshine will be strong enough to peek through.

Some days, you move through the mist on instinct. You answer the call, do what needs doing, and hope for clarity. Sometimes, the sun breaks through all at once; sometimes, it’s just a pale glow at the edge of things.

But there’s always a mountain behind the fog. There’s always something solid and sure, even if you can’t see it right now.

Being a querying author, trying to break through, is lonely. The world feels gray and uncertain.

This is night seven of seven. My body doesn’t know what time it is anymore. Day and night have blurred together, just like that fog. I’ve been running on coffee and stubbornness, showing up even when I’m too tired to think straight. Maybe that’s all resilience is — showing up when you can’t see where you’re going.

That’s what it feels like, heading in for night seven of seven. The world right now is black. But I know the sun will rise tomorrow, even if I can’t see it. And there will be promise in it — quiet, but sure. The light might just break through.

I’ve lived in the Shenandoah Valley most of my life. As a little girl, my bedroom window looked out on Massanutten. I’ve watched that peak through every season, every weather pattern. It’s always there — steady, solid, real. Even when I can’t see it. That’s what I have to believe about my writing. Even when it feels invisible, even when no one’s reading it yet, it’s still there. Solid. Real. Worth fighting for.