When I woke up on launch day on Monday, I thought of the 13-year-old version of me jumping up and down and screaming with excitement because his book had been published. His thoughts and words have been perfect bound or electronically transmitted to share with anyone! This introverted kid holed up in his room with a piece of plywood as his lap desk so he could scrawl on college ruled notebooks, telling stories and imagining all kinds of things. He was quiet, kind, and shy, bu

I've been rehearsing this moment in my head for a while now. Not the launch itself—the feeling I thought I'd have when it finally arrived. I imagined something cinematic. Maybe a swelling soundtrack. At minimum, a sense of profound certainty that I'd done something meaningful. Instead, I woke up this morning, made coffee, and sat with Hudson for a few minutes before my brain fully caught up to the date. March 23, 2026. Launch day. And then the other thing hit me. Twenty-five

I was interviewed recently about my upcoming book, The Luck We Carry: Love, Loss, and the Stories That Shape Us . I was a little nervous going in, but I kept talking myself down. What question could the host possibly ask me about the book that I couldn't answer? I wrote it. That helped. Mostly. But once the show started, none of that mattered. All I wanted was to be present — to engage with my friend Alan Locher, and talk about one of my favorite subjects: Ken, and the book t

“Moving on” never felt right. Here’s what I found instead. It was August, a few months after my husband Ken died. I’d poured a glass of cabernet and carried it out to the garden he’d tended for years. The angel trumpets were in bloom, their sweet scent lingering around me. Their aroma competed with the way summer evenings smell when you’re simultaneously grateful and gutted. I was about to read a message Ken had left me—words I didn’t know he spoke. Words I didn’t think were

I went to the theatre knowing what had happened. Like many people, I knew the story of Emmett Till. I knew the facts in the way history books and documentaries present them. I knew the names, the verdict, the unfairness. I knew the headline version of the injustice. What I didn’t know, or maybe hadn’t fully absorbed, was what it would feel like to sit in a room and listen to the trial unfold word by word. “Trial in the Delta: The Murder of Emmett Till” does something deceptiv

I didn’t expect this part to undo me. I expected nerves. I expected vulnerability. I expected that familiar, low-grade panic that comes with handing someone a piece of yourself and saying, "Here. I hope this connects with you." What I didn’t expect was the kindness to come back so clearly. So specifically. So generously. Over the last few days, some of my advance readers have been finishing The Luck We Carry , and their messages have been landing in my inbox and on my phone a

I didn’t expect my eyes to well up, but they did—fast and without warning, like a sudden summer storm you swear you didn’t see coming. It caught me off guard mostly because this wasn’t supposed to be that moment yet. It’s just a proof. Not the finished book. Not the one that gets stacked on tables or slid into bags at events or signed with a Sharpie that never quite works the first time. And still. Holding it in my hands made everything real in a way my brain hasn’t quite ca

Today I did a thing that felt both thrilling and mildly unhinged. I sent my book to advance readers. Not the world yet. Not strangers on the internet with profile photos of sunsets and opinions about commas. But still. Real humans. People I know. People who can text me. This is the part of writing no one quite prepares you for. You spend years alone with a document. You revise. You cut sentences you loved. You move commas around like they’re furniture in a very small apartme

The title of my upcoming book is " The Luck We Carry: Love, Loss, and the Stories that Shape Us .” The title comes from an essay I wrote last year about an experience that really touched me and solidified the idea for this book. At the library book sale where I volunteer, I helped a woman out to her car with her bags of books. Along the way, she wondered aloud why so many people seemed to have such an easy life—particularly, health-wise. But she wasn't complaining. As a survi

I expected notes. That’s what you brace for when you hand something precious to an editor. You expect margin comments. Structural concerns. A polite but firm list of things that need work. What I did not expect was to be told, in calm, measured language, that the book already does what it set out to do. The response began by describing my manuscript as “a collection of well-crafted essays assembled as a sort of episodic memoir,” and went on to talk about how grief is present

My upcoming book exists because of a promise. Ken was full of kindness, grace, and humor. So much so that even our hospice experience together held moments of joy. Not because it was easy. It wasn’t. We had hard conversations. Honest ones. The kind you’re grateful for later. I have no regrets. I got to tell him everything I was feeling. Before he died, he made me promise one thing: to never stop writing. This upcoming book is me keeping that promise. Page by page. Essay by es

When I woke up on New Year’s Day 2026, the first words* out of my mouth were, “This is the year my book comes out.” (*I did say good morning to Hudson first. Priorities.) Still, saying it out loud mattered. It felt different than thinking it. Different than quietly working toward it, which is what I’ve been doing for a long time now. This wasn’t a resolution. It was a declaration. 2026 is the year this book steps into the world. I’ve been writing since I was thirteen, but thi

It's my fourth year, sitting with a stack of envelopes packed with selected memories from the past year since starting the practice for 2022 . It's the perfect way to slow down, stay in the moment, and reflect on the big events that defined this year for me. Give it a watch, and let me know if you might try something similar for 2026. Or tell me what your ritual is. I'd love to hear!

Christmas Day walks with Hudson have a different kind of quiet to them. The streets are empty. The world feels paused. No rush, no noise, no expectations. Just cold air, steady footsteps, and a very good dog taking everything in like it’s sacred. I always forget how much I need that kind of stillness until I’m standing in it. These walks don’t ask anything of me. They don’t need to be productive or meaningful. They just are. And somehow, that’s enough. If you’re craving mo

I’ve been working quietly toward something for a long time now. Longer than most people realize. 2026 is shaping up to be a year of intention, creativity, and a big chapter finally stepping into the light. Not overnight. Not out of nowhere. But built slowly, honestly, and on paper. I’m not ready to share all the details just yet. But if you’ve been following my writing, my journaling practice, and the way I tell stories about love, loss, and reinvention, you’re already closer

While I was outside with Hudson yesterday, one of my neighbors was out with her dog, Ripley. Hudson and Ripley like to "talk" and play without regard for the fence between them. As I turned to leave them to their games, my neighbor Barbara said, "Merry Christmas," and handed me a gift bag. Inside were a few thoughtful things. Frangos. Fannie Mae. A treat for Hudson. Simple, kind, not over-the-top. Tucked in with it was a handwritten note that stopped me in my tracks. “To Ron

The holidays can be loud. Not always in the obvious ways. Sometimes it’s the noise of schedules and obligations and travel plans and inboxes that refuse to quiet down just because the calendar says “holiday.” Sometimes it’s the internal noise. The pressure to show up cheerful. The comparison spiral. The sense that you should be more grateful, more social, more productive, more present… all at once. For years, I carried all of that straight through December. Laptop open. Phone

Here’s the thing about the holidays that no one really says out loud. They give us permission to pause. Not the kind of pause that comes from burnout or hitting a wall. The gentler kind. The intentional kind. The kind where you step back before you actually have to. This year, I’m letting myself take that break. For a long time, rest felt like something I had to earn. Finish the thing. Cross the line. Then maybe you can exhale. But the older I get, the more I realize that tak

Fifteen years. I had to sit with that number for a minute. I started this blog in a very different version of my life, long before I knew how much the words would hold, or how many times they’d help me climb out of whatever I was carrying. Back then, I didn’t have a plan. I just knew I needed a place to put the truth. I look at those early posts now and see a writer who was still figuring out how to speak without apologizing for it. I also see moments of joy, grief, reinventi

the leftovers are stacked in the fridge that makes space for the good stuff to surface. Not the performative kind of gratitude, but the real, lived-in kind—the moments that catch you off guard and remind you what still feels steady. I found mine in the small things this weekend. Hudson nudging my hand with his nose. A perfectly ordinary morning coffee. A wave of warmth for the people who’ve shown up in ways big and small throughout the year. The holidays have a way of magnify