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

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

Grief and loss don’t define me. They inform me. For a long time, I thought grief had rewritten my entire identity. After Ken died, everything felt marked by before and after. I didn’t recognize the guy in the mirror. I didn’t recognize the world he lived in either. It felt like grief had stamped my passport and decided where I was allowed to go next. But with time, I realized something important. Grief didn’t take over my story. It reshaped it. It sharpened what mattered. It