Excerpt
Introduction: Who Was Nellie Bly, and Why Should We Care?
The clock started ticking the moment Nellie stepped onto the ship. November 14, 1889. It was a chilly morning in New Jersey, and her suitcase was ridiculously small—just one bag, barely bigger than a loaf of bread. No trunk. No servants. No nonsense. She was on a mission to travel around the entire globe faster than anyone ever had, and every single second counted.
The ship’s horn blasted. People on the dock cheered. Reporters scribbled notes. And Nellie? She just waved and grinned. If she was nervous, she didn’t show it. This wasn’t just a trip. It was a race—against time, against the world, and against everyone who said a woman couldn’t do it.
Her first leg was across the Atlantic Ocean, and it wasn’t smooth sailing. The waves tossed the ship like a toy in a bathtub, and most passengers were seasick. Nellie wasn’t immune, either. She felt awful—but she kept writing in her notebook. Her job as a reporter didn’t stop just because the floor was rocking beneath her feet.
When she arrived in England, she had no time to rest. She zipped through London, grabbed a fast train to France, and raced to the home of Jules Verne—the author of Around the World in 80 Days. She wanted to tell him face-to-face: she was going to beat his record.
Jules Verne shook her hand and smiled. He liked her confidence. He thought she might make it in 79 days, if she was lucky. Nellie just thanked him, then dashed off to catch her next train.
From there, it was a blur of motion: trains across Europe, a steamship to the Suez Canal, blazing sunshine in Egypt, then off to Sri Lanka (which was called Ceylon back then). She traveled through heat, wind, and pouring rain, sending reports by telegraph whenever she could. Newspapers back in New York printed updates like sports scores. People were glued to their maps, tracking her progress, cheering her on like she was running a marathon.
In Singapore, Nellie was fascinated by the markets. She loved discovering foods, fabrics, and gadgets she’d never seen before. She was traveling with the eyes of a journalist—taking in every color, every sound, every story. Still, she didn’t let curiosity slow her down. She had a schedule to beat.
One of the strangest and funniest moments happened in Hong Kong. When she arrived, a local agent told her something shocking: “You’ve already lost. Another woman is ahead of you.”
Wait—what? Another woman?
Yes. Her name was Elizabeth Bisland, another journalist, sent out by a rival magazine on the same day Nellie left. Without her even knowing, the trip had become a head-to-head race. Nellie didn’t panic, though. She just raised her eyebrows and said, “We’ll see.”
After leaving Hong Kong, she boarded a ship to Japan. But it wasn’t easy getting out of port. Bureaucrats and delays nearly ruined everything. Every hour mattered. She paced the deck, writing letters and reports, while the ship sat anchored, doing nothing.
Finally, she made it to Japan, and her time there was short but full of wonder. She adored the culture and was especially struck by how polite everyone was—even in the middle of a busy city. But again, no time to linger. She had to catch her final and most important connection: a fast ship back to America.
And not just any ship. The Oceanic, one of the quickest steamships crossing the Pacific. If she missed it, she’d lose the whole race. She made it on board with minutes to spare.
The Pacific crossing was brutal. Storms hammered the ship, slowing them down. At one point, it looked like she might miss her connection in California. But something incredible happened. People across the country were so hooked on her journey that train companies started bending their schedules. Reporters sent messages ahead. Crowds gathered at stations. Strangers offered to lend their horses or help direct traffic.
The train ride across America was fast—blindingly fast. She rode day and night, barely stopping to eat. Her train flew through the plains, the Rockies, and the farmlands of the Midwest. At every stop, people gathered just to see her. Some held signs. Others waved flags. Kids ran alongside the train cars, trying to get a glimpse of the woman who was making history.
By the time she reached New Jersey again, the crowds were enormous. Newspapers had started selling special editions with bold headlines: Nellie Bly Nears the Finish! Bells rang. Bands played. People shouted her name.
Day 72. She stepped off the train to an explosion of cheers. She’d done it—circled the entire planet in just 72 days, 6 hours, and 11 minutes. She’d beaten the fictional record from Around the World in 80 Days, and she’d done it without an entourage, without much money, and without giving up once.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t collapse. She smiled, tipped her hat, and walked straight to the office to file her story.
The whole world had been watching her. Now it was listening.
Why her story still matters today
You’re probably used to hearing about history as something that’s over. Something that happened a long time ago to people who wore old-fashioned clothes and talked in weird ways. But Nellie Bly doesn’t feel like that kind of history. Her story doesn’t sit quietly on a dusty shelf. It pushes forward. It taps you on the shoulder. It dares you to pay attention.
Because even though she lived more than a hundred years ago, what she stood for is still right here, right now.
There’s a reason people still say her name. Not because she was famous once—but because she did something rare. She changed what people thought a single person could do. And that idea hasn’t aged a day.
Think about this: the world is full of rules that tell you to wait your turn. Or to stay quiet. Or to keep things simple when you have bigger ideas. Those rules haven’t disappeared. They just dress differently now.
Today, people still get underestimated because of how they look, where they come from, or what others think they should be interested in. But Nellie’s story reminds us that what matters isn’t who doubts you—it’s what you decide to do anyway.
She didn’t have a map for her life. She wasn’t born into money or handed a plan. But she was curious. She cared about things that were unfair. And when she saw people being treated badly, she didn’t walk away. She asked questions. She got involved. She found out what was really going on—and then told the world.
That’s something anyone can do, even now. You don’t need to be a reporter. You just need to notice things. And speak up when something feels wrong.
There are still stories that need to be told. Stories about people who are struggling. Stories about people doing good things quietly. Stories about what’s broken—and how it could be fixed. Nellie believed those stories were important, even when others didn’t. She used her words as tools, not just decorations.
And she didn’t wait for someone else to hand her a microphone.
If you’ve ever had a thought like, “I wish someone would do something about that,” guess what? Nellie’s answer would be: Why not you?
She didn’t let being young, or female, or different stop her from chasing what she thought was right. That’s one of the reasons her story still feels bold today. She made decisions that other people were too scared—or too stuck—to make. And she did it over and over again.
Even when she failed. Even when things got hard.
It’s easy to look back at someone like Nellie and think, “Wow, she must’ve been super confident all the time.” But that’s not how it works. Confidence isn’t a magic switch. It’s something people grow by doing difficult things. By trying, messing up, and trying again.
Nellie didn’t always know how things would turn out. She didn’t always feel brave. But she acted anyway. And that’s what made the difference.
That’s another reason she still matters. She proves that bravery doesn’t mean feeling fearless. It means doing something important even when you’re scared.
Maybe you’ve been in a moment like that. You needed to tell the truth, or stick up for someone, or be the first to speak when nobody else would. And your stomach flipped, and your heart pounded, but you did it anyway.
That’s what courage looks like.
Nellie’s story gives us a kind of roadmap—not for what to do, but for how to be. Curious. Honest. Determined. Willing to take risks for things that matter. And not just for yourself, but for other people, too.
She didn’t chase attention. She chased impact.
When she wrote about what was happening in the asylum, she didn’t just shock the public—she helped change the way people with mental illness were treated. When she traveled around the world, she didn’t just beat a record—she showed that women could go farther, faster, and smarter than anyone expected. When she reported from war zones and managed a business and kept writing tough stories, she was sending a message every time: don’t let anyone else decide what you can become.
You might not be hopping on a steamship or sneaking into dangerous places. But the world still needs your eyes. Your voice. Your point of view.
The world Nellie lived in isn’t gone. It’s just evolved. The same way she challenged newspapers and factory owners and unfair systems, you can challenge what feels wrong around you—whether that’s a rule that needs changing, a question that needs asking, or a story that hasn’t been told yet.
You’re living in a time with more tools than Nellie ever had. Phones. The internet. Instant ways to share ideas, build projects, and connect with people. What you do with those tools is up to you.
The clock started ticking the moment Nellie stepped onto the ship. November 14, 1889. It was a chilly morning in New Jersey, and her suitcase was ridiculously small—just one bag, barely bigger than a loaf of bread. No trunk. No servants. No nonsense. She was on a mission to travel around the entire globe faster than anyone ever had, and every single second counted.
The ship’s horn blasted. People on the dock cheered. Reporters scribbled notes. And Nellie? She just waved and grinned. If she was nervous, she didn’t show it. This wasn’t just a trip. It was a race—against time, against the world, and against everyone who said a woman couldn’t do it.
Her first leg was across the Atlantic Ocean, and it wasn’t smooth sailing. The waves tossed the ship like a toy in a bathtub, and most passengers were seasick. Nellie wasn’t immune, either. She felt awful—but she kept writing in her notebook. Her job as a reporter didn’t stop just because the floor was rocking beneath her feet.
When she arrived in England, she had no time to rest. She zipped through London, grabbed a fast train to France, and raced to the home of Jules Verne—the author of Around the World in 80 Days. She wanted to tell him face-to-face: she was going to beat his record.
Jules Verne shook her hand and smiled. He liked her confidence. He thought she might make it in 79 days, if she was lucky. Nellie just thanked him, then dashed off to catch her next train.
From there, it was a blur of motion: trains across Europe, a steamship to the Suez Canal, blazing sunshine in Egypt, then off to Sri Lanka (which was called Ceylon back then). She traveled through heat, wind, and pouring rain, sending reports by telegraph whenever she could. Newspapers back in New York printed updates like sports scores. People were glued to their maps, tracking her progress, cheering her on like she was running a marathon.
In Singapore, Nellie was fascinated by the markets. She loved discovering foods, fabrics, and gadgets she’d never seen before. She was traveling with the eyes of a journalist—taking in every color, every sound, every story. Still, she didn’t let curiosity slow her down. She had a schedule to beat.
One of the strangest and funniest moments happened in Hong Kong. When she arrived, a local agent told her something shocking: “You’ve already lost. Another woman is ahead of you.”
Wait—what? Another woman?
Yes. Her name was Elizabeth Bisland, another journalist, sent out by a rival magazine on the same day Nellie left. Without her even knowing, the trip had become a head-to-head race. Nellie didn’t panic, though. She just raised her eyebrows and said, “We’ll see.”
After leaving Hong Kong, she boarded a ship to Japan. But it wasn’t easy getting out of port. Bureaucrats and delays nearly ruined everything. Every hour mattered. She paced the deck, writing letters and reports, while the ship sat anchored, doing nothing.
Finally, she made it to Japan, and her time there was short but full of wonder. She adored the culture and was especially struck by how polite everyone was—even in the middle of a busy city. But again, no time to linger. She had to catch her final and most important connection: a fast ship back to America.
And not just any ship. The Oceanic, one of the quickest steamships crossing the Pacific. If she missed it, she’d lose the whole race. She made it on board with minutes to spare.
The Pacific crossing was brutal. Storms hammered the ship, slowing them down. At one point, it looked like she might miss her connection in California. But something incredible happened. People across the country were so hooked on her journey that train companies started bending their schedules. Reporters sent messages ahead. Crowds gathered at stations. Strangers offered to lend their horses or help direct traffic.
The train ride across America was fast—blindingly fast. She rode day and night, barely stopping to eat. Her train flew through the plains, the Rockies, and the farmlands of the Midwest. At every stop, people gathered just to see her. Some held signs. Others waved flags. Kids ran alongside the train cars, trying to get a glimpse of the woman who was making history.
By the time she reached New Jersey again, the crowds were enormous. Newspapers had started selling special editions with bold headlines: Nellie Bly Nears the Finish! Bells rang. Bands played. People shouted her name.
Day 72. She stepped off the train to an explosion of cheers. She’d done it—circled the entire planet in just 72 days, 6 hours, and 11 minutes. She’d beaten the fictional record from Around the World in 80 Days, and she’d done it without an entourage, without much money, and without giving up once.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t collapse. She smiled, tipped her hat, and walked straight to the office to file her story.
The whole world had been watching her. Now it was listening.
Why her story still matters today
You’re probably used to hearing about history as something that’s over. Something that happened a long time ago to people who wore old-fashioned clothes and talked in weird ways. But Nellie Bly doesn’t feel like that kind of history. Her story doesn’t sit quietly on a dusty shelf. It pushes forward. It taps you on the shoulder. It dares you to pay attention.
Because even though she lived more than a hundred years ago, what she stood for is still right here, right now.
There’s a reason people still say her name. Not because she was famous once—but because she did something rare. She changed what people thought a single person could do. And that idea hasn’t aged a day.
Think about this: the world is full of rules that tell you to wait your turn. Or to stay quiet. Or to keep things simple when you have bigger ideas. Those rules haven’t disappeared. They just dress differently now.
Today, people still get underestimated because of how they look, where they come from, or what others think they should be interested in. But Nellie’s story reminds us that what matters isn’t who doubts you—it’s what you decide to do anyway.
She didn’t have a map for her life. She wasn’t born into money or handed a plan. But she was curious. She cared about things that were unfair. And when she saw people being treated badly, she didn’t walk away. She asked questions. She got involved. She found out what was really going on—and then told the world.
That’s something anyone can do, even now. You don’t need to be a reporter. You just need to notice things. And speak up when something feels wrong.
There are still stories that need to be told. Stories about people who are struggling. Stories about people doing good things quietly. Stories about what’s broken—and how it could be fixed. Nellie believed those stories were important, even when others didn’t. She used her words as tools, not just decorations.
And she didn’t wait for someone else to hand her a microphone.
If you’ve ever had a thought like, “I wish someone would do something about that,” guess what? Nellie’s answer would be: Why not you?
She didn’t let being young, or female, or different stop her from chasing what she thought was right. That’s one of the reasons her story still feels bold today. She made decisions that other people were too scared—or too stuck—to make. And she did it over and over again.
Even when she failed. Even when things got hard.
It’s easy to look back at someone like Nellie and think, “Wow, she must’ve been super confident all the time.” But that’s not how it works. Confidence isn’t a magic switch. It’s something people grow by doing difficult things. By trying, messing up, and trying again.
Nellie didn’t always know how things would turn out. She didn’t always feel brave. But she acted anyway. And that’s what made the difference.
That’s another reason she still matters. She proves that bravery doesn’t mean feeling fearless. It means doing something important even when you’re scared.
Maybe you’ve been in a moment like that. You needed to tell the truth, or stick up for someone, or be the first to speak when nobody else would. And your stomach flipped, and your heart pounded, but you did it anyway.
That’s what courage looks like.
Nellie’s story gives us a kind of roadmap—not for what to do, but for how to be. Curious. Honest. Determined. Willing to take risks for things that matter. And not just for yourself, but for other people, too.
She didn’t chase attention. She chased impact.
When she wrote about what was happening in the asylum, she didn’t just shock the public—she helped change the way people with mental illness were treated. When she traveled around the world, she didn’t just beat a record—she showed that women could go farther, faster, and smarter than anyone expected. When she reported from war zones and managed a business and kept writing tough stories, she was sending a message every time: don’t let anyone else decide what you can become.
You might not be hopping on a steamship or sneaking into dangerous places. But the world still needs your eyes. Your voice. Your point of view.
The world Nellie lived in isn’t gone. It’s just evolved. The same way she challenged newspapers and factory owners and unfair systems, you can challenge what feels wrong around you—whether that’s a rule that needs changing, a question that needs asking, or a story that hasn’t been told yet.
You’re living in a time with more tools than Nellie ever had. Phones. The internet. Instant ways to share ideas, build projects, and connect with people. What you do with those tools is up to you.