I opened my laptop this morning with a different kind of energy—the kind that comes from space instead of urgency. A forced pause (thank you, daycare winter break, and I truly mean that) created room I didn’t realize I’d been craving. Room to exhale. Room to look
My mom died eight years ago. Usually, I feel the effects of grief after the anniversary, but this year, I experienced a long, slow intensification of sadness. Like the tide rising, the waves are getting choppy, leaving me scared and panicked. I don't like this feeling – sadness. When
I envy the writers who can let their piece be focused on one thing. Every time I sit down to write these days, I'm overwhelmed by how much I can't say in the space that I have to say it. I put so much pressure on
When my mom died, I lost more than her. I lost my sense of self. I lost my creativity. Everything I did was to accomplish something. No frills. No exploring. No creativity. Just did enough to survive the loss. Grief stripped me down to only what I could carry, and
I’m spinning my wheels. Convincing myself that my story & my words are not needed in book form. It is time to stop overthinking it. This book isn’t about perfection—it’s about showing up and being real with myself. I don’t need to worry about sounding
She keeps me Moving Bravely when all hope seems lost. Writing is incredible. People are just out there pairing words together to express an idea or experience. Sometimes, I forget that I am one of those people. I’m not sure how normal this is for the average person, but