Why I Write
I learned early how to escape. I learned how to love myself, but hate the parts of me that said I wasn’t enough.
I grew up finding refuge in stories and songs, on bedroom floors, in car radios, in cheap bedroom stereos, in the quiet places where no one expected anything from me. While other people were learning how to be loud, I was learning how to listen. I paid attention to moments: the ones that pass in seconds but stay with you for years. A first kiss. A song that hit at the exact right time. A fight with my mom I didn’t understand until it was too late.
I write from the space between who I was and who I’m still becoming. Nostalgia follows me, not because I’m stuck in the past, but because I believe memory is a teacher. My stories carry regret, missed timing, being lost, and love that almost made it, but they also carry hope and light. I believe second chances exist, even if they arrive quietly and ask us to move slower this time.
Faith, for me, isn’t comfort, it’s courage. It’s stepping out when the water is rough, trusting a voice I can’t always see, choosing belief even when certainty feels far away. Love works the same way. It’s fragile and messy and worth the risk, even when it hurts.
I write about parenting and growing up, about loss and heaven and the ache of waiting. About disappearing long enough to find myself again.
Music saves me. Words save me.
Telling the story is how I stay honest, how I stay human.
I don’t write because I’ve figured life out.
I write because I’m still here, still hoping, still believing, still learning how to come home.
And if these words ever find someone sitting on a bedroom floor, staring at a ceiling, wondering if they’re enough, then maybe my disappearing had a purpose. Maybe the listening, the waiting, the breaking, and the becoming were never just for me.
I write in the hope that someone feels less alone. That a memory softens instead of sharpens. That faith feels possible again, even in small, quiet ways.
If my stories can remind someone that healing doesn’t have to be loud, that becoming takes time, and that second chances still knock, sometimes softly, then the telling matters.
I’m learning that coming home isn’t just about finding yourself. Sometimes it’s about leaving a light on for others who are still finding their way.
My God, My Music, My Life 