If letting go feels like betrayal, maybe that’s because someone taught her true blue love means holding what hurts even after it starts to burn.
The Audacity of Sounding Like Myself
Querying my memoir has turned silence into self-diagnosis, and now I’m trying not to mistake fear for evidence.
The Advice Her Life Never Meant to Give
I admire my momma for the life she built for us, even as I question how to honor her love without making her total sacrifice my only blueprint for motherhood.
Scarcity Theater: What Was Never Mine to Fix
There’s a point in grief where reflection curdles into rumination. The what-ifs look like insight, but most of the time they’re just guilt in disguise.
I Edited a Book So Dad Would Finally Hear Me
I treated Dad like something to be fixed. I thought if I got the words right, he would be too. I didn’t know how to ask, so I wrote it like it was already true.
The Thirsty Elephant Problem: Am I Selfish?
Paralysis isn’t solidarity. Being Bothered from a place of safety isn’t the same as doing something useful. Anguish isn’t participation. Collapse isn’t virtue.
Permission Over Proof: Cutting Pages, Courting Agents
Small acts of disregard, stacked, become an avalanche. I need permission over proof, to finish editing p.iii, and to get this manuscript in an agent’s hands.
Look Human: Writing Well Isn’t Enough
Writing well isn’t enough. You have to look human. After switching from third-person to first, I didn’t expect my next change to be avoiding looking like AI.
Holding a Firefly: The Chapter That Says Yes
The chapter that undoes me isn’t about loss. It’s joy—a memory glowing after everything fades. Editing it is like holding a firefly without crushing its light.
I Did It: Yes to Every Chapter
Turns out finishing doesn’t feel like triumph. It feels like setting something heavy down. I finally finished the first draft, and my body knows it.