Honest storytelling as a form of healing.

Category: Real life

  • Lessons learned

    Lessons learned

    April tried to humble me. It worked. But here’s what else happened.


    April came in with punches I wasn’t ready for. The PDF I’ve been pouring into for two months is still sitting quiet with no sales. Writing slowed down in a way that scared me a little.

    Friendships I thought were solid started showing cracks. Unexpected situations landed one after another and I had to just absorb them.
    But April also gave me things I didn’t expect to need as much as I did.
    I saw Naika live.

    I walked into an Edgar Allan Poe themed speakeasy and let that be everything it was. I got to go to BookCon.

    I stood under the cherry blossoms and let that mean something.

    I started documenting what I’m building in a way that feels real. Those moments carried weight. They reminded me I’m still someone who shows up for beauty even when things are hard.
    So here’s what May is going to be about for me.
    Getting back to the page. Even if it’s one paragraph. Even one line on a hard day, that counts.

    Getting back to moving my body, even if it’s just half a mile. Submitting my poetry. Exploring. Traveling somewhere. Actually being in spring before it disappears.


    And this May I turn three years. Three years since a moment that should have ended me and didn’t. I don’t always understand why I’m still here.

    Some days I’m still looking for the answer. But I am here. And that means I have to keep going, keep creating, keep finding the light even when I have to squint to see it.
    April was a teacher.

    May is going to be a celebration.

  • A Whole New World

    A Whole New World

    I woke up early and I was excited. Doors opened at 10 but I knew better than to show up at 10. This was a convention people had been talking about for months. So I got there early, and sure enough, when I turned the corner to find the entrance, the line was already wrapped around the block.

    I waited at least 45 minutes before they let us in.
    And when they did, it was a massive amount of people spread across four floors. All I could think was: we are all here for the same reason. We love books. That was it. That was the thread connecting every single person in that building.
    Later I found out that while I was inside in awe, absorbing everything, studying the room, people were online complaining that it was too crowded. And I understand that. But that’s not what this is about.
    This is about what it felt like to be in the room.
    I didn’t go as a fan this year. I went as a writer doing her homework.

    I walked those floors with my eyes wide open, asking myself: what does this feel like from the other side of the table?

    Because that’s where I’m headed. I told myself right there, out loud: next year, I’m coming back as an author.


    I met some incredible people. I picked up books that called to me. I picked up a little Edgar Allan Poe magnet and now he lives on my writing wall, staring at me every time I sit down to write.

    Only a matter of time

    I sat on a Naturepedic mattress at a booth, held up a book, and let someone take my picture like it was the most natural thing in the world, because it was.

    I stood in front of a backdrop that said I See Books In My Future and I believed it.


    Con mucho amor. That’s what one of the authors wrote in my book. With much love. That’s the energy of BookCon, underneath all the crowds and the chaos. People who made things, sharing them with people who needed them.
    I needed this day more than I knew.
    The floor was packed. My feet hurt. I was tired before I even got there. And still, I left full.
    That’s the writer’s life, isn’t it? You show up tired. You find something that feeds you anyway. You go home and you write about it.
    See you next year. On the other side of the table.

    Manifesting where I will be coming next year w my book
  • A new Never ending Wave

    A new Never ending Wave

    Today marks 20 years since my oldest daughter’s passing to SIDS and I thought I’d share 20 things I wish people understood about grief:

    1. “They’re in a better place” doesn’t make the missing stop. Both things can be true and still hurt.
      1. “Don’t be sad” is not comfort. It’s a request for your silence.
      2. “They wouldn’t want you to cry” maybe. But grief isn’t about what they want anymore. It’s about what love does when it has nowhere to go.
      3. “You’re lucky you have other children” is one of the cruelest things you can say to a grieving parent. Children are not interchangeable. Every single one is irreplaceable.
      4. “Just smile” means make me more comfortable with your pain.
      5. Grief has no expiration date. None.
      6. Twenty years later, that is still your person. That is still your baby. Time does not shrink that.
      7. It comes in waves. I can be fine right now and crying in an hour for no reason other than love.
      8. Sometimes the wave hits in the middle of a grocery store. Or a gym. Or a Tuesday morning.
      9. You learn to carry it, not lose it. It becomes part of how you walk through the world.
      10. Anniversaries are not just dates on a calendar. They are full-body experiences.
      11. The ones who feel it most are the ones who say the least about it.
      12. Grief is lonely. Not because no one cares, but because no one else loved them exactly the way you did.
      13. Sometimes I just need someone to say I’m here. That’s all. No fixing. No advice. Just I’m here.
      14. Silence from the people you expected to remember hurts in its own quiet way.
      15. Putting up a face is exhausting. But sometimes it’s how you survive the day.
      16. You don’t grieve less over time. You just get stronger between the waves.
      17. A favorite book, a song, a smell any of it can bring them back in a rush. That is not a breakdown. That is love.
      18. Grief is not weakness. It is the proof of how deeply you loved.
      19. My child will always be my child. In this world and the next. No amount of time, distance, or “looking on the bright side” changes that.


    If you are grieving today, I see you. You don’t have to explain yourself. You don’t have to be okay. You just have to keep going, and you are.

  • When You Don’t Know How You Feel and That’s Okay

    When You Don’t Know How You Feel and That’s Okay

    When’s the last time someone asked how you were doing and you just… didn’t have an answer?


    Not because nothing was happening. But because everything was happening and none of it had a name yet.


    Some days arrive heavy. Not dramatic, not falling-apart heavy just the quiet kind of weight that settles in your chest before you even open your eyes.

    You go through the motions. You show up. You do the thing. And somewhere underneath all of it, something is asking to be felt but you don’t know what it is yet.


    That’s not a problem to fix. That’s actually the beginning of something.


    Journal therapy doesn’t ask you to have it all figured out before you sit down to write. It meets you exactly where you are including the days when where you are is I don’t even know. One of the first things journal therapy teaches us is that the body often knows what the mind hasn’t caught up to yet. So when words won’t come, we start there.
    Try this: before you write a single sentence, pause and ask yourself what does my body feel right now?

    Not your thoughts. Not the story. Just the physical. Tight shoulders. Heavy eyes. A breath you keep forgetting to finish. Write that down. That’s your entry point.


    From there, let yourself go a little deeper.
    Ask yourself what you’ve been avoiding thinking about. Not to force it open just to acknowledge it’s there. Sometimes naming the thing we’re circling around is enough to release a little pressure.
    And then ask the question that changes everything: What would I write if I knew no one was reading?


    That’s where the real stuff lives.
    You don’t have to perform your healing. You don’t have to arrive at a conclusion by the end of the page. Some journal entries are just proof that you showed up on a hard day and that counts.


    So if today is one of those days where the feelings don’t have labels yet, grab the

    journal anyway. Start with your body. Follow the thread. Trust that clarity comes through writing, not before it.
    Start here three prompts for the unnamed days:
    ∙ What does my body feel right now?
    ∙ What have I been avoiding thinking about?
    ∙ What would I write if no one was reading?


    You don’t need the whole answer. You just need the first honest sentence.

  • When Life Pulls the Tablecloth

    When Life Pulls the Tablecloth

    Funny how it feels like time is slowly shifting, but still moving slow.

    Not gonna lie at first I thought it was just the season. All that glum, grey cold weather. The seasonal heaviness that was becoming a storm I couldn’t escape. I told myself that if we could finally get some warm sunshine, it would solve everything.

    Finally, March arrived. The trip I’d planned with my youngest to the Botanical Garden to kick off the month was a go. Color, warmth, making memories with my little girl. It was gonna be a win-win.

    But life had other plans.

    Friday night I had a slight cough but I also have asthma, and my body was achy from a long hard work week, so I brushed it off. Saturday arrived with a headache and that same cough still hanging around. I said nope, took a vitamin C, and even went for a run. Had to stop midway. I told myself I just hadn’t run in a bit and the cough wasn’t helping, so I went and got a pedicure instead. At least I’d do something good for myself to set the mood for the fun time ahead.

    But once I was done, I felt my body say: are you done?

    I’ll admit it, I’m stubborn. I took some cold meds and more fluids and kept the plan alive in my head. I got up early Sunday after doing asthma treatments through the night. That should’ve been my sign right there. Maybe going into the city wasn’t a good idea.

    But I mustered on, got dressed, and we headed out only to turn back midway because I got sick on the train.

    From there it snowballed into a whole week of missing work. I was that sick.

    And I still couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see that my body was trying to tell me to slow down.

    That is when we need to stop and listen. Or at least that’s when I need to stop and listen.

    You see, I have a lot of things on my plate. I admit I want them all done ASAP. But that’s the thing about life it doesn’t care about your timeline.

    Again, we are not in control no matter how much we plan. Sure, sometimes that works. But when it won’t, it won’t.

    You can have everything mapped out, color-coded, scheduled down to the hour, and life will still walk in, pull the tablecloth, and watch everything slide. Not to destroy you. Maybe just to remind you that you are not in charge of the pace.

    Sometimes the pause is the plan. And your only job is to rest inside it until it’s time to move again.

    I’m learning that no matter how carefully I plan, life will always have its own version of events. And maybe that’s okay. One moment at a time is still forward motion.

  • Just another day or was it

    Just another day or was it

    Opened on time.

    Lights on.

    Music playing.

    Everything with its usual humming.

    Members walked in like any other day.

    What they didn’t see?

    I couldn’t find my keys.

    The chunky keychain with all the charms.

    The one that’s impossible to miss until it’s missing.

    I called coworkers.

    No answer.

    I swallowed my pride and called to make .

    Drove to get a backup key.

    Watched the clock like it was a countdown to disaster.

    Adrenaline before sunrise.

    And still the doors opened.

    No one knew the scramble.

    No one felt the panic.

    No one noticed the recalculating, the rerouting, the quiet “figure it out.”

    They just saw access.

    And that’s the part that stayed with me.

    How much of life is held together by people who are internally sprinting while externally steady?

    Last night my coat snagged and fell apart.

    This morning my keys disappeared.

    For a moment, it felt like everything was unraveling.

    But nothing unraveled.

    The doors opened.

    Sometimes resilience doesn’t look glamorous.

    Sometimes it looks like solving a problem before anyone knows there was one.

    Sometimes strength is quiet.

  • When Everything Feels Amplified

    When Everything Feels Amplified

    There are days when nothing catastrophic happens,

    yet everything inside me feels louder.

    The thoughts move faster.

    The body feels heavier.

    Ordinary moments carry more weight than they should.

    I’ve learned not to panic when this happens.

    Emotional intensity doesn’t automatically mean something is wrong.

    It doesn’t mean I’m unstable.

    It doesn’t mean I’m failing.

    Sometimes it just means I’m aware.

    Intensity is what happens when I stop numbing.

    When I’m no longer distracting myself enough to avoid what’s stirring underneath.

    When something in me is outgrowing the version of life I’m currently living.

    It shows up as restlessness.

    As heat in the chest.

    As a quiet refusal to keep settling.

    I used to interpret this feeling as a problem to solve.

    Now I see it as information.

    It’s asking questions.

    Where are you misaligned?

    What are you tolerating that you’ve already outgrown?

    What would it look like to choose yourself here?

    I’m learning that I don’t need to escape intensity.

    I need to hold it long enough to understand what it’s pointing toward.

    Not every strong feeling is a crisis.

    Sometimes it’s a compass.

  • Pressure Makes Diamonds

    Pressure Makes Diamonds

    My alarm goes off well before the sun even considers rising.

    3:00 a.m. blinks back at me, blurry and unforgiving.

    I lie there for a moment, knowing I want to hit snooze but also knowing I won’t.

    I sit up anyway.

    I grab my phone and remember I didn’t even set out what I’m going to wear.

    The exhaustion from yesterday has settled deep into my legs, heavy and familiar.

    And the thought comes, quiet but clear:

    this is not where I’m supposed to be.

    Still, I push myself up.

    Because I need to do this.

    Because this will be part of my story.

    Part of what I went through.

    They’ll say it’s easy work.

    Minimal tasks.

    Nothing to complain about.

    But those minimal things drain my soul,

    because I know deep in my bones that I am meant for something else.

    I layer up for another winter day and wonder if maybe it’s just seasonal depression.

    Maybe when the light returns, when the warmth does, this feeling will fade.

    And then the nudge comes again:

    No. This isn’t that.

    So I write this as a reminder to myself

    if it’s true that pressure makes diamonds,

    then I will be the biggest one ever found.

  • Doing Hard Things (Even When Your Soul Isn’t in It)

    Doing Hard Things (Even When Your Soul Isn’t in It)

    Doing hard things when your heart is elsewhere is one of the most exhausting acts of adulthood.

    There are moments when your spirit has already left the room. You’ve renounced a situation internally emotionally, energetically, spiritually but your body still has to show up. Duty calls you into places you’ve already outgrown. And no, you can’t always just walk away. Not yet.

    So you stay.

    Not because you’re weak.

    Not because you lack courage.

    But because responsibility, timing, and reality sometimes require endurance before release.

    This is the part no one romanticizes: continuing on while your passion lives somewhere else. Knowing you’re meant for more, yet tending to what’s in front of you because walking out prematurely would cost you more than staying a little longer.

    I’ve done this in every form

    a job that drained me,

    a relationship that had run its course,

    friendships that no longer fit the version of me I was becoming.

    And here I am again, standing at a crossroads, holding a double-edged sword. One side is survival. The other is vision. Both are sharp. Both require intention.

    What keeps me moving forward is this:

    I know this is temporary.

    There’s already a countdown in my mind.

    The work I’m doing now is not wasted it’s preparation.

    Sometimes thriving doesn’t look like joy.

    Sometimes it looks like discipline.

    Sometimes it’s simply keeping your word to yourself while you build the bridge out.

    If you’ve ever stayed somewhere longer than your soul wanted to, I see you. And I’d love to know what was it for you? A job, a relationship, a friendship? What did you learn while you waited for your moment to step forward?

    This isn’t the end of the story.

    It’s the part where the groundwork is being laid.

  • Intentions of a Writer

    Intentions of a Writer

    I sat down with the intention to write a poem.

    Not to impress, not to perform  just to let something honest come through.

    But almost immediately, the questions arrived.

    Is it good enough?

    Will it be understood?

    Will it reach anyone at all?

    What starts as a desire to express something real can so easily turn into self-surveillance. I wondered if my words sounded cliché, or worse self important.

    As if wanting to learn the language of poetry required permission. As if feeling deeply was something to apologize for.

    So instead of writing, I stared at the page.

    Negotiated with myself.

    Edited thoughts before they could even breathe.

    What’s your motivation?

    Days passed like this. Pages stayed empty. Not because there was nothing inside me  but because I forgot why I started writing in the first place.

    The truth is, my words were never meant to convince anyone of anything. They weren’t meant to be understood by everyone, or even received at all.

    They were meant to be a form of healing.

    And they still are.

    When I remember that, the page softens.

    The pressure dissolves.

    And the poem writes itself not for an audience, but for my own becoming.