Grief, Heartache, and Hope That Never Ends

In my daily trek through social media, I recently saw a couple of posts that got me thinking about grief and healing, and I knew I needed to share them here. It began simply: "How have tears brought healing to your soul?" It immediately reminded me of a study I once read about the healing power of grief and tears...but it also brought to mind a string of moments from my own life. Heartbreak and hope, scars and strength. Acceptance and grace.

Too often, grief doesn’t show up the way we expect it to. Too often, it's a weight in your chest that you can’t quite name, slowly rewriting your story with emotional growth you might not have felt quite ready for.

I’ve been processing pain myself lately, practicing letting go and trying to find peace in God's timing...but this situation hits different. It's a personal ache I can't change and don't know how to fix. I'm grieving, holding onto dwindling hope in a bond I thought was unbreakable. And even with the promise of beauty from brokenness and purpose in pain, grief demands to be felt.

But understanding grief means holding onto this: grief reminds us that the emotions were real, that something mattered. And comfort in grief is rooted in realizing that we can hold on to the good, even if we're learning through loss. Because as you'll see in the story below, emotional healing isn’t about forgetting. Releasing the past and moving forward with self-compassion are where we find hope again. 

The full poem this quote was taken from was found on this page,

but I can no longer find the specific graphic.

The poem, however, is also part of this book, which is wonderful.

Trembling, I search the shadows, fists clenched, struggling to breathe in silence. I know this place.

It isn’t real, not the way the world outside is real. But here, waiting in the war-torn wilderness of Heartache, the coming battle is as tangible as the blood in my veins and the sweat seeping from my pores. The ground trembles; the air thickens. My body tenses, fighting the instinct to run. There is no running here.

It emerges from the shadows, massive and inevitable. Dark eyes staring steadily, the hairy knuckles of massive hands dragging the ground. The primate screams...and his name is Grief. I should be used to him by now—we’ve fought before. But he never really goes away.

The first blow comes fast, surprising despite our history. A strike to the ribs: flashbacks to the family I dreamed of. A slap tears a line of gouges in my skin: memories of betrayal and loss. The gorilla pounds his chest, screaming again, and it is the sound of aching absence, the shattering of something that should have been unbreakable.

I stagger backward, terrified, but won't fall. Not yet. My guard is up. I've learned. This isn’t my first time here.

Grief lunges again, hairy knuckles cracking against my jaw. My vision blackens, then returns. The sting of rejection oozes from the inside of my bitten cheek. But Grief isn't finished yet. He pounds the ground with closed fists, roaring now, shaking the earth beneath my feet. My balance gone, my knees buckle under the bitterness of stripped value, of knowing I tried, knowing I loved. Knowing it wasn’t enough.

Fearing it will never be enough.

I'm losing. Gasping, desperate for air, for relief. For something to hold onto. But Grief doesn’t stop. It presses in, merciless, pinning me under the weight of inescapable loss.

But then—a voice whispers in the dark. "Don't forget the girl." And the words aren’t mine. My heart thumps slowly, aching but reliable; I turn my head.

The little girl is where she's always been. Just beyond the battle. Watching with wide, knowing eyes, the hem of her nightgown flapping in the breeze. She is me.

But she’s her own person, too. The child who believed that love was enough, that family could be forever, that she could choose to create something beautiful. Shimmering tears, carving tracks through the dust on her face, tell me she still believes.

A fresh ache blooms in my chest, but it’s different now. Not loss, but recognition. I'm not just fighting for myself. I'm fighting for her.

Gritting my teeth, I plant my hands on the ground. My arms shake as I climb to my feet, each breath a desperate gasp, my body begging me to give in. But I won't. I can't.

The gorilla watches my struggle. Silent. Waiting. It doesn't attack. Because Grief never truly wins anyway. It only lingers.

Relieved, I realize that I don't have to beat it. I only need to keep standing. I step forward, and suddenly the gray edges of Heartache blur, twist, and fade away—the shifting perspective opening the way to freedom. For now.

A broken woman takes the hand of the child. They are parts of me: the scarred hopeful, the mourning lover, embracing emotions while releasing the past.

The pair limp together into the distance, supporting each other. I turn to the light, moving toward healing. And though these past selves might never hear my whispered promise, I speak the words anyway. "I am proud of both of you. Your pain will not be wasted. And even if you're stuck in this place forever...I'll tell your story."

*****

Grief may linger, but we don't have to give it the final word. Some battles don’t go the way we want...but the victory lies in standing anyway, trusting the process, choosing to keep going. And for me, winning is holding onto faith in Jesus, who has my back no matter where the battlefield is.

This week, I needed that reminder. While I did fight my way through another round of emotional growth this week, I didn’t finish editing STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM. I'm frustrated because I wanted to be finished by now. I had a plan. I had a schedule, a goal. And I fell behind.

The good news is that missing my own expectations doesn’t really mean I’ve failed, no matter how much I beat myself up over it. Grace means taking time to acknowledge that my writing is still mostly on track. Joy is anticipation, celebrating that FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is nine weeks away from release. And no reader will ever know which paragraphs I rewrote umpty-billion times before I loved them.

So, I’m reminding myself—and you, my friends—that progress counts and perfection is not required. Slow steps still move us forward, and sometimes setbacks are a necessary part of the process. What matters most isn't how long it takes. Real success is found in the determination to...

Little Blessing, Big Reaction: The Great Mattress Swap

Writing real life vignettes for these posts is quickly becoming one of my favorite things. I love sharing the everyday moments, exploring real-life emotion and perspective in a creative way—and surprisingly, I'm enjoying the effort to keep my novel-writing instincts compliant to bloggable word counts!

This week I'm balancing the fine line between excitement and embarrassment. Writing is the easy place in my life, the one place where compulsion gives me confidence and feedback helps me soar. My faith is where I find everyday miracles and comfort in the hard times. But parenting? Well, that's a different story.

As a mom with complex PTSD, I spend most days searching for small blessings and gratitude in everyday life. My daughters know about the life I came from, but I want nothing more than to see them succeed in ways I never could, so I've given my best to showing them the value of choosing positivity and counting unexpected joys. But my youngest is on the autism spectrum and comes with her own collection of quirks; life with an autistic child is a special adventure brimming with challenges. Personally, I've come to appreciate it as a whole new way to find humor in parenting.

The plan had been set for days, and I was drowning in the blessing of divine provision. The whole week felt like an answered prayer in the secrecy of my Mama heart, but the real fun began the morning of the switch. After dropping my youngest daughter off at school, I rushed home, almost giddy with anticipation. I slipped into her room, grinning as I photographed her unmade bed, capturing tangled blankets, scattered stuffed animals—even the half-turned deodorant abandoned in the morning rush. Every detail mattered; I wanted to put it all back exactly as she’d left it, ensuring that nothing but the mattress itself would change. Would my chronically unobservant daughter even notice? Would she flop into bed after school, unaware as always, and roll right off? The comic possibilities were endless.

Stripping the bed, I tossed everything to one side, including the sheet, complete with its pink makeup stain. Giggling to myself as I imagined her reaction, I wrestled the old mattress downstairs, propping it on the porch like an abandoned relic of my daughter's childhood. Then, it was time for phase two.

I met up with my co-conspirators—one equipped with a truck, the other with nearly superhuman strength—at the beautifully cozy home of my spiritual parents, who were the blessing behind the scheme. The mattress I was about to claim for my daughter wasn’t just any mattress. It was the mattress. The one my daughter adored every time we house-sat for them. The one she sighed over, repeatedly declaring it superior to her own. And now, thanks to a guest room upgrade, this relatively new mattress would be hers.

After chatting and laughing over various anticipated reactions, we loaded the truck and headed back to my house, where we maneuvered the luxurious new mattress up the stairs, giggling at the absurdity of the situation. Using my reference photos, we staged the bed to perfection, debating whether my daughter would notice slight accidental changes or the difference from one mattress to the other. Better yet, would she launch herself onto it and miss entirely? "Knowing her as we do," we agreed, still laughing, "it's totally possible!"

Finally satisfied with our staging, we hauled the old mattress away to prevent it from spoiling the surprise. And then it was time for the real challenge. Acting normal. That evening, we had planned a Bible study at my spiritual mama's house—the very place my daughter's new mattress had once lived, and my daughter, aware of the study but not the swap, was already looking forward to sprawling on her favorite bed at "Yaya's" while I socialized.

Anticipating a quiet evening lost in her favorite shows, she had spent the morning debating the merits of one show over the other on the way to school, and as I recalled her morning chatter that afternoon, I could barely contain myself. As soon as we got home, I used a chore reminder to buy myself time; I wanted to make sure I was upstairs first, phone in hand, ready to film.

I braced for one of two outcomes: she’d either remain embarrassingly oblivious, or she'd have a reaction so dramatic it would be legendary. Reality a third, more simple option. As she climbed the stairs toward her room, chattering in her usually non-stop way, she froze. The words died on her lips. Her eyes locked on her bed. Her mouth fell open. Then, in a screech of pure stunned bewilderment, she blurted, “Wait, what? Mom, WHY is my bed taller??”

*****

Life is full of choices—where to place our focus, how to frame our challenges, whether to see need or provision. Sure, I could dwell on my daughter's desperate need for a new mattress and the fact that my budget couldn’t stretch to meet that need, but I choose to see loving friends, the unexpected but perfect timing of this gift, and the quiet way God cares for my home and comfort, right on down to a good night’s sleep.

Big things are happening too, though! I finally finished the first round edits on STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, and this novel is a 140,000-word beast; in the second pass I'm hoping to trim around 25,000 words, giving you a tighter, more stream-lined flow. In the meantime, we’re 66 days away from the re-release of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM (available for preorder now), and I can't wait to see Christine's story have a chance at new life!

Remember that perspective changes everything. This morning at church, a friend complimented my increasingly gray hair, calling it "glitter," and I laughed—but she’s right. Proverbs 16:31 says, "Gray hair is a crown of splendor," and while I know the grays overtaking my formerly reddish-brown hair may seem like a sign of age, I’m choosing to wear them boldly. Every strand is evidence of life lived, wisdom gained, and my choice to...

Faith, Fiction, and the Fearless Middle Ground

If you've known me for long, you're familiar with the honest, mostly-unfiltered way I share my journey of personal growth and overcoming challenges. You'll know my determination to keep going when life gets hard, and the way finding purpose in hard seasons comforts me as I attempt to build a life apart from the trauma of my childhood. You'll have noticed how heavily I lean on books, music, and inspirational quotes when I'm pushing through self-doubt, overcoming overwhelm, or feeling defeated. These are the core motivators for my writing—to use the art of storytelling (both fiction and non-fiction) to offer distraction from and encouragement for tough times.

I hope I've also made it clear that I'm a Christian who lives by the concept of faith over fear, prioritizing spiritual growth and emotional healing through faith. My own faith journey is a long, winding road through a broken landscape, filled with marshy bogs and arid deserts, devastated by conflict of all kinds...but ever so slowly rearranging itself into a a beautiful, powerful place. If the beginning of this post describes the "what" behind my writing, then the war torn spiritual setting I've just described is the "where," the "why," and the "how." Last night I went to a concert that drew all these things together in a moment that left me shaken and sobbing with gratitude. Let me tell you the story...

In my early days with Jesus, I found no joy in faith-based music. It troubled the deepest part of my lyrical heart, the part of me that comes to life when a beat and a rhyme are paired with expertise. Those are, after all, the central components of any music—masterful poetry hand-in-hand with instrumental heroics. But I couldn't pour my heart into the sleepy stillness of gospel music read from dusty hymnals and I asked him, "How can I have David's faith if I don't love these modern Psalms?"

He smiled softly, shaking his head. "Try this." He turned on the radio, and I listened to music that permanently altered my sense of worship. And I loved Him more because He understood.

Nearly two decades have passed since that day; in the years since, Jesus and I have crooned along with Christian pop and country ballads, we've tested tongue-twisters with Christian hip-hop, we've screamed ourselves hoarse with Christian rock. And through those songs so many people have come to think of as "performative," he taught me who I am.

This weekend, we found ourselves seated together in a crowded arena for Winter Jam 2025—the two of us squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder between my smiling daughters. Human body and Holy Spirit, lost together in a sea of 14,000 faces. We beamed with pride as Micah Tyler played a full set list with the flu, his determination to boast in God's reckless love warmed by a 101-degree fever, his hoarse and likely burning throat occasionally soothed by sips of bottled water. I leaned closer to Jesus and gestured to the man on the stage, my heart pouring motherly sympathy and professional admiration. "I guess that's what you do when God calls you to something big."

He held out his hands, eyebrows raised as he displayed the old scars. "Indeed."

As the show went on, I thought about faith and fear and writing, agonizing as always over the way my career choice combines with and contrasts against my faith—sometimes almost invisibly blended, other times in seeming opposition, like the swirled veins of color in slabs of marble.

Jesus, always attentive, noticed the shift in my energy; perhaps he read the thoughts on my face, or heard the silent whisper of my heart. He took my hand and tugged me nearer, leaning down to shout above the noise. "Noah didn't seem sensible either! He built an ark in the desert, remember?"

I nodded in silent amusement, watching my daughter's face flame with excitement as Colton Dixon launched the last song in his set: Build A Boat. The lyrics drew tears of relief and sobs of comforted joy from the deepest parts of my longing soul, even as the music rose and 14,000 voices rocked the arena. In the end, I stood with the rest, claiming the promise of the song. Trusting God's plan, patient again in God's timing.

And though it trembled with the force of emotion, my voice was one of many—backed by courageous determination, strengthened by purpose. "With Your wind in my sails, Your love never fails or fades...I'll build a boat, so let it rain."

*****

Many times, people close to me have asked how I blend the depth of my faith with the content of my fiction writing. Most ask out of genuine curiosity, and those conversations are some of my favorites—but there are always a few who come expecting to challenge or misunderstand what I’m doing and why. To some Christians, I’m too secular; I write flawed characters who cuss, struggle, and (gasp) have sex. To some non-Christians, I’m too spiritual, slipping faith into unexpected places.

Either way, I’m not writing to fit anyone’s mold. I write to meet people where they are, how they are, just like Jesus did. As Paul said in 1 Corinthians 9:22b, "I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some." My work, whether it's fiction or non-fiction, isn’t about rebellion or compromise. It’s about sharing the truth of my personal testimony through the exploration of storytelling, and trusting that God will put those stories in the hands of those who need them.

Speaking of stories, we're seventy-three days away from the release of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM's expanded second edition, and I am so excited to see this story get back out there! This week, I also made solid progress on editing STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, and while I'm not as close to finished as I'd like to be, I'm proud of how Christine's story played out in the end. Watching her regain and rebuild her life and sense of self has been incredible, and I'm in such a hurry to share her with the world. Which means I'd better post this and get back to editing...

Until next week, remember that your purpose is worth the wait too, even when you feel like you're falling behind in life. Christian or not, keep building that boat, don't forget to put a relaxing chair for reading on the deck, and remember to...

You’re Not the Problem: A Story of Self-Worth and Belonging

I spend a lot of time on social media these days, struggling to build my platform as a writer. Some days I enjoy the process; other days, not so much. Either way, every post or comment and every interaction is another plank on the imaginary stage, from which I hope to share my journey of faith and healing with readers. Recently, this Facebook post brought back a flood of old memories: feeling unwanted, struggling with self-worth, overcoming family rejection, and learning to belong.

It took me back to times when I tried so desperately to be small—small in voice, small in presence. Small enough to be overlooked because I hungered for attention but it wasn’t safe to be noticed, and yet...no matter how much I shrank myself, I was still there. Still real. Still me. I lost nearly thirty years of my life feeling like a burden, overcoming childhood trauma, healing from rejection. Trying to balance my need to be seen and known against the counterweight of shame for even wanting such a thing.

But I'll be forty-one tomorrow, and with each passing year I find more comfort in myself, my space, my existence. I am not "too much" or "too little." I just AM.

She learned early how to disappear.

She had no magic, no illusion, no special talent, no trap door beneath her feet; the early years marked by abuse and neglect left only the quiet hope of taking up as little space as possible. A soft step coupled with a lowered gaze, vibrant blue eyes the only window to an achingly silent soul. It was safer that way.

Long before her woman's body began to bloom, her child mind recognized the risk of notice, the danger of being seen. Sharp critiques chipped away at her self-worth, impossible standards blew hope from her hands like dandelion seeds on the wind. A stinging backhand, the crack of a paddle. The shattered blue glass of a bowl thrown—and only narrowly dodged. Love shouldn't hurt, but it did. And rare as it felt when it did come, it always came with conditions. Be enough, but not too much. Stay small, but not too small.

Under Grandma's watchful gaze, she learned another lesson—perhaps unintentional, but cemented in the core of her self-acceptance all the same. Even quiet things could be a burden.

Mornings, which could have been filled with hope for the brokenhearted girl, were instead reminders of her status as an added burden. She would awaken in the quiet, careful not to wake the cousins in the other bunks, and creep silently from the room as the world began to stir. With lowered eyes and lips tightened against the slightest utterance, she would curl herself into the living room chair with a book. Speechless. And still.

But every morning without fail, Grandma would shake her salt-and-pepper head. breaking the silence with an exasperated sigh. She was overburdened already—and now she was stuck with another mouth to feed, another damaged child to raise. The girl was an intrusion. Quiet perhaps, but still too visible. So she adjusted, shrinking further. She abandoned the cozy chair and spent those early moments in the bathroom instead, curled up on the tile floor where the closed door meant no one had to see her. And for once, she wasn't in the way.

The years passed; she grew a little taller, a little stronger. The girl became a woman, now too big for invisibility. She found her self, found her voice, spread her wings, took up space. Too much space. She wasn't Goldilocks—she was every item in the cottage of the Three Little Bears all at once. Too bold and too cold. Too meek and too bossy. "Playing the victim" but "too proud" and so very "full of herself." Too much and too little, but never enough.

Grief and anger struck a rebellion that told her she was fine, that there was purpose in pain even if she couldn't see it. That if even loathsome cockroaches had purpose, she must have one too...even if it was only to serve as constantly unpalatable contrast.

But then she looked into the faces of her own daughters, strong-willed and brimming with life, and found the magic she'd been carrying all along. The illusion of nothingness shattered around her, an echo of the long-gone but never-forgotten blue bowl. And a spark flared to life in the embers of a smothered spirit.

She had spent a lifetime trying to disappear. She would not teach her daughters to do the same.

Instead, she gave them protection and truth in love. She warned them that they would always be too much for some and too little for others. That no matter how they tried, they might never mold themselves into the expectations of those who did not understand them.

And then she told them that it didn't matter anyway—because people are fickle and preferences are varied, but nothing changed the simple face that they were wanted. And that by their very existence, God himself had made them enough.

*****

For me, overcoming childhood trauma and healing from rejection meant learning hard lessons in self-love and trusting God's plan for my life—but it wasn't an easy journey and I got myself into a lot of messes along the way. That imaginary platform I mentioned at the beginning of this post? It's all reclaimed material, bits and pieces pulled from the wreckage of my younger selves, painted with the stories of my past and the lessons I've learned. And speaking of stories...

We're eleven short weeks from the rerelease of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, a powerful novel largely inspired by my personal experiences with overcoming and recovering from domestic abuse. In the United States alone, domestic violence accounts for 15% of all violent crime, and a woman is assaulted every nine seconds.

I can't change the world, but I can tell a story—and I hope with every beat of my heart that Christine's story will give voice to survivors. I hope she steadies their shaking hands, emboldens them to seek safety, encourages them to keep healing, and reminds them that they have everything it takes to...

Writing As Resistance: Censored, Not Silenced

Do you ever re-realize something you already knew? Like you already knew it in your head, but it drops into your heart like a missing puzzle piece, falls into the peaceful stream of your day like a rock in a pond, sending outward ripples extending over the water? This week that happened to me, because lately I've found myself in a battle I'm not sure how to win.

I pride myself on being a storyteller, but I also pride myself on my honesty. I try hard to balance truth and kindness in my life, but recently I've struggled with an increasingly uncomfortable sense of forced silence. There's a story I want desperately to share, based on a truth I think the world could benefit greatly from—but lately, every time I find the courage to speak I find the power of words stolen from me, my lips stapled together and covered in tape. Not because it's false or harmful, but because it's about the inherent instinct for survival, and the desperation that drives us in our darkest moments to seek light at all costs.

The story I'm aching to share sits in my soul like old family legends passed down from generation to generation, whispered in secret or passed hand to hand in the night. It's the kind of story that will never disappear until it leaves an irreversible mark, like the echoes of lines drawn on paper regardless of how hard the world tries to erase them.

But I? Rubbed raw in spirit by the world's erasure, I will muster truth and resilience to tell this story—even if it's only whispered from one soul to another—and I will pray that it finds the right hearts, that it sinks into those hearts like ocean water soaking into sand. And that the knowledge of it takes hold like a contagion of change that births new safety in empowered autonomy.

The wordsmith stood on a rickety wooden platform, all her dreams and hopes for the future held in her hands, stained and crumpled pages of parchment eager to escape her grasp and take flight on the passing wind. No longer a girl, not yet the village crone, she tipped her face to the sky, sending a whispered prayer to the heavens. She braced her feet against an almost palpable wave of fear, her throat hot with the acid burn of anxious bile rising with every breath. "No stopping now," she whispered, shaking fingers still clenched on the sweat-dampened edges of her story.

The story was written in blood, each page torn from the depths of her soul, the papers assembled carefully in the quiet, spider-webbed recesses of a troubled past no one dared—or cared—to explore. But she had walked a long and lonely road from her hidden cavern of isolated solitude, and scared or not, she was ready.

One lone woman filed into the space, lowered herself to a bench, and was soon joined by a man clearly from a distant land. Soon the wooden benches filled, and a sea of watching eyes focused on the shaking wordsmith. She watched their brows furrow and lower in confusion as she opened her mouth to begin, only to find her voice suddenly muted. She glanced down at the pages, stunned as bloodred ink blurred and then faded into the parchment. A quiet murmur rippled through the crowd, and the wordsmith scanned the room, horrified to find her greatest fear standing in the shadows beyond. The Censor narrowed eyes as large as pools of blackest tar, a menacing smile teasing at the edges of pale, thin lips.

The Censor had plagued the wordsmith all her life, deafening those who might hear her, twisting the meaning of her words even as she said them until her resolve shattered and she hid herself away, convinced that writing the words would protect them, preserve them, and give them power to enact change. Hunched over the Altar of Light, she had penned prayers of pain until rain poured from her eyes and there was only the blood of her heart with which to fill the empty pages of her desperation to be seen and heard—and it was only then that heartbreak became hope.

But there he was, waiting in the shadows, unnoticed by the crowd as they pinned her to the platform with scorn-filled eyes. "You can't tell the story!" one woman shouted. "Now is not the time!"

Encouraged, another woman nodded agreement. "It's too dark anyway; there's no hope to be found in a grimoire of grisly stories!"

Closing her eyes against the crowd, she stood like a punished child, heart aching, mouth dry. They were right. It was dark. But the whisper in her soul was a gently encouraging push. "Tell the story," it said. "Someone hungers for its hope." And as she opened her eyes the ink appeared again, as defined as a woodland path and sparkling somehow, like sunshine on the vastness of the ocean. She turned the page as yet unread, and sought the map she'd drawn, topography clarified by milestones and landmarks. The Censor may not let her tell the whole story, but she could show the map. She could lead them to the Altar of Light, where they might find, in the silence of the cavern, their own stories written in her words.

*****

The little fable written above is more than just an afternoon of me playing with genre and style. It's an example of why stories matter. Recently, I've been silenced on social media through automated algorithms that flag any promotion of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM because the cover image shows a woman with visible bruises.

In a world often bent on silencing survivors of our inhumane society, fighting for justice and overcoming censorship is now a call to the battlefield of social opinion, a cry for our culture to stop turning a blind eye to victims. For me, the power of storytelling means speaking up for truth, standing up for what's right. It means when silence isn't an option and finding your voice isn't enough, there is still power in writing as resistance, sharing stories that matter.

I'm taking steps to work around this censorship, but the fact is, we still live in a world ready to revictimize survivors by silencing the sharing of their stories. FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is personal for me, drawn from the stories of women in my own family—including me. I may be censored, but I am not silenced, especially when there are others willing to speak alongside me. If you'd like to help share this story and take up arms against censorship, share this blog post, share auto-flagged Facebook post #1 or auto-flagged Facebook post #2, or of course, pre-order the book. Whatever you choose to do, remember to always...

Writing in the Quiet of Ghosts: The Best Kind of Haunted

I love my life as a storyteller, but I own that title with both glee and trepidation. In fiction, I make up stories entirely—but large segments of every character and plot and developmental idea are pulled from my own real-life experiences, because for me, writing and healing are one and the same. But what if I were to look at my own life as a story and myself as a character in it?

Sometimes the real-life stories I would tell are so outrageous I doubt them myself even though I lived them, and it is only the confirmation of others who lived my life beside me that give me comfort. I write as a way of coping with loss, whether it's a parent or marriage, a child or friend, or simply the sense of my self and who I might have been if my life had gone differently. The magic of processing grief through storytelling is that it harnesses the power of memories—both good and bad.

Last week's post was an exploration of this concept, like pollen scattered over a blooming desire to share my journey and my life as a writer in a new way—through stories told as they were lived. The thing is, some stories are harder to tell than others, because when the laughter is gone and the love has faded into the past, the quiet that lingers after goodbye often feels like torture. This is one of those stories.

I read the words through a film of tears sweetened with time but bittered by loss, and wondered why they felt so different from before. I had written them so many times already, always in joyful celebration of great accomplishment and yet this time, they felt somehow...wrong.

I've always done most of my writing in silence. I'm painfully introverted, highly sentimental, and easily distracted; on top of this, writing with PTSD often means finding inspiration in grief while needing a steady, solid atmosphere of safety in which to create. It's a delicate balance that makes the glowing print on my laptop screen seem like so much more than two simple words: "The End."

I left them there, glowing softly against the deepening cover of night, the screen itself backlit by a window filled with moonlight. And I thought about other times I'd written those words.

The first time was a cold winter evening in 2012, and I had just finished my first novel. Three weeks of frantic typing, crafting letters into words and phrases and sentences of poignant emotion, all to escape the looming threat of grief. We didn't know yet if my mother had cancer, didn't know yet how bad it might be, and it was all so complicated. She was a terrible mother—but she was the only one I had.

I was alone in the quiet then too, but I reached for the warmth beside me and whispered, "I did it. Finally, I did it!" And the dog looked up, surprised at my touch; he sniffed the air, black nose twitching in the light of the laptop screen. Assured that all was well, he arched a tawny eyebrow and burrowed closer, then closed twin pools of deep dark chocolate and went back to sleep. When the book came a few weeks later and I held the paperback in my hands, sobbing alone in my kitchen as I flipped through the pages, he danced at my feet.

He was there for the next book too, and the next one. Always a silent support, a warmth curled against my feet or legs as I tapped my way through nine books and three laptops. He held just as steady when the tapping stopped, offering no judgement for either the silenced keyboard or the tortured artist behind it. He left the warmth of a couch cushion behind to don an itchy vest and lay in silence in my therapist's office through countless appointments. He saw two little girls grow and mature into young women. And when I opened the laptop again he was there just the same, with his graying hair and faded nose and increasingly loud snore.

His story ended on a July afternoon in 2024 but mine goes on in the quiet after loss, my emotional writing journey forever marked by his years of faithful service and support.

And so I looked away from the words glowing on the laptop, absent of his warmth, and caught sight of a stark white box embellished with an offset pair of paw prints. The box sits now on the bookshelf in my office, heavy with the precious treasure hidden inside it. I can't pet him anymore...but he's still here, in the ghost of his bark, in the random tufts of hair we still find in hidden corners of the house, in every memory of who and what he was, so much more than just a dog.

I cried in the silence, celebrating the accomplishment even as I grieved the way it took so long to finish this book, searching for the balance between holding on to memories and embracing life after loss. Loss changes creativity. It does. And losing a loved one impacts so much more than the breathing lungs and beating heart that go so still in death.

Still, as they say, "The show must go on." So I dried my tears, I nurtured the pride and excitement lingering beneath the sadness, and I picked up my phone. My friend Beth is a lot less hairy and she's never once curled up against my legs because it'd be weird...but when she answered my call I said, "I did it. Finally, I did it!"

And as all the best friends do, she leapt to the occasion and her joy danced with mine.

*****

STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM was one of the hardest writing projects I've ever tackled, not only because I wrote it in the throes of deepest grief, but also because I carried constantly the weight of my desire for accuracy in telling Christine's story of life after domestic abuse. Now that the writing is finished, I'm moving into the editing phase—which is no less tedious or valuable but is thankfully far less emotionally taxing. STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM will release in March 2026.

In the meantime, the expanded second edition of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is the beginning of Christine's story, and this emotionally evocative novel of growth and survival is available now for preorder! FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM will release May 08, 2025, and will maintain a 40% discount until publication day, so don't miss out! (Links to your favorite retailers are here.)

Until next week, I hope you enjoyed this behind the scenes excerpt of my life as an author, and I pray you'll be inspired to always...

The Story of Josephine

Recently, I saw a Twitter/X post about the before-and-after life-changing moments so many of us have in our lives, those moments that divide our time here so decisively into clear parts and sections. It made me think about my own life story in a different way, contemplating the placement of Act dividers and Chapter headings. What major dividing events drove one part of my story into the next? What would the chapters be called? Would I share them in a linear fashion, or in more of a thematic style dependent on the events of the day? And what if I began to share those moments here, perhaps as fictionalized true story chapters of my life?

My oldest daughter is not my first child. My motherhood journey began with the heartbreak of a miscarriage, and there is a very quiet, mournful place held in my heart for that lost child and who he or she might have been. But my oldest daughter is the first of my children to kick in my womb, the first to make me pee my pants at Walmart, the first to take a breath and issue a blissfully blessed scream of energetic existence into the chaos of a Tennessee operating room. For every moment of every day since then, I've been some version of Mom (Mama, Mommy, Mother!, Bruh...), making dinners, cleaning messes, soothing booboos and always, always, offering the best guidance I could muster with the knowledge and resources available.

She turned 21 yesterday. For the last 21 years, I've made a point of telling my daughter the story of my last pre-mom day, because I wanted her to know that her entry to the world and her existence in it matters. But her birth story is one of the most meaningful turning points in my life too, so if I were to share a chapter of my life here, I think timing and significance make that day the best place to start. 

The day began much the same as they all did, with nausea and soreness. Everything hurt. My back, my swollen legs. My ribs, so strained by constant bouts of sickness. My chest burned like a gaping pool of acid, and as I stumbled out of bed I thought of the people who promised—always with an amused smile—that, "heartburn means the baby will have hair!" I would've been fine with a bald baby, if only I could eat a meal and keep it down.

Nagging worry turned to outright fear as the morning passed, and I poked my rounded belly now and then with increasing determination. The baby hadn't moved at all. I called the doctor, made an appointment, went in to be checked, and was assured that all was well.

"She doesn't have as much room these days," the nurses said gently. "Between you being small and her being tall...plus she's breech...there's just no room in there. She's slowing down, resting up. One more week to go." The nurses met my troubled eyes, nodding patiently. They took the monitors away, folded the elastic bands, threw away the electrodes. "Go on home and get some rest. Put your feet up."

Outside the hospital, the sun was falling toward the horizon; daylight was fading, shadows were lengthening, temperatures began their nightly freefall. I sat in my car, debating. Home to rest? Or Walmart for a Hot Pocket? Walmart won.

In the store I browsed the freezer section, one hand propped idly on my still-quiet belly, my discreetly repurposed fast-food-drink-cup-to-stealth-barf-bucket propped beside my purse in the seat where one day soon, I hoped a living child would fidget and whine. I settled for cheesy chicken and broccoli, thinking of warmth as I added my meal to my cart.

I'll never remember how or why I ended up in the back of the store. I've always been lactose-intolerant and had long since given up trying to drink milk, but somehow there I was, staring into the milk cooler. With a nostalgic smile for the long-ago days when a cold glass of milk could fix everything, I closed the cooler and turned away. She was standing there, watching me. A large woman in every sense; she was tall and built like a linebacker, with a giant fluff of wild brown curls. Brown eyes peered out over the collar of a puffy brown Mayfield Dairy jacket, a strange mix of suspicious and friendly. She asked about the baby.

"Well, she's been still today," I said ruefully, poking the belly again. "I haven't felt her move at all. The hospital checked her out though, said she's okay. I'm supposed to go home and rest, but..." Gesturing toward the box of Hot Pockets, I shrugged. "Dinner."

The woman shocked me with a bark of laughter—just as big as she was, just as wild as her curly hair. "Honey," she said, her voice filled with energy and southern twang, "they're wrong. Don't you go home; you stay here and wander a while. Walk around; it'll help. You're havin' that baby tonight."

Dismissing the woman's words as the insane ramblings of an old meddler, I smiled and nodded as I lied and promised to walk, then proceeded to the checkout. "Crazy old busybody," I muttered, poking the belly again. The baby didn't answer.

At home I heated both Hot Pockets, choked one down, and threw the other in the garbage with a grimace, cursing myself for not checking the ingredients. "Should've known there'd be onions in there. Damn. Like five dollars, too!" I went to bed still hungry, still frustrated. Still worried over my still-motionless baby.

The baby stayed quiet, but the onions didn't. I barely made it to the bathroom before the Hot Pocket launched itself from my stomach, burning the back of my throat, lingering onion acrid on my tongue. The spasms in my stomach were strong enough to set off shock waves in my bladder; each new gasping retch from above met with intermittent gushing from below. Eventually the vomiting stopped...but the gushing didn't.

I threw up so hard I broke my own water. "You've got to be kidding me."

Four hours later I lay on an operating table, my body numb, my wrists and ankles strapped down to prevent movement, my mind racing. What if I died in the surgery and left my child with no mother? What if it took too long, what if we were too late? What if this child didn't make it either? What if she did?

And in the back of my mind, a repeated mantra: "I guess that Mayfield lady was right, after all."

Stretched out the way I was, strapped down and unable to move, I thought of crucifixion. Death and loss and hope swirled in my mind, a stormy maelstrom of disjointed, drug-induced musings that ground to a shocked and instantaneous halt when the doctor quietly said, "Okay, you're gonna feel some pressure now. It's just me putting your uterus back in."

"I'm sorry...What?" I turned my head, trying to see over the surgical shield that blocked my view. "You're doing what? You took it out?"

He laughed. "Well, I had to take it out and sew it up. I assume you want it back, don't you?"

"Well...yeah. Hey, Doc...make sure you put it in straight, okay?"

It wasn't long before I lay propped on piles of pillows, sobbing. My body still ached, but in entirely new ways now, and my heart had never been so broken. She was perfect. Twenty inches long, 8 pounds even. All ten toes, all ten long and clumsy fingers. Blue eyes like gray skies in winter. Narrow lips that puckered like the petals of a rosebud when I tickled them with the barest touch of a fingertip. And a full head of thick, shining black hair.

Josephine's first rainfall was made of the tears I couldn't hold back as I held her. The first prayer she ever heard fell from the lips of an unbeliever, as a young woman who had taken pride in cursing God begged for the patience and strength to be a good mother. "Please, please, help me. Help me to give her more than what I had, to make sure she's loved and protected and safe. Please, God, please, help me."

As time passed, I saw that shining black hair fall away. I saw it grow back in toddlerhood, a fall of glossy ash blonde that darkened strand by strand until my girl entered middle school with hair a brown that's sometimes chestnut and sometimes honey. Through middle school, I watched it tighten and frizz and develop a mind of its own—and my black-haired, blue-eyed infant entered high school with green eyes and a wild head of brown curls more glorious than that Mayfield lady could ever have imagined.

Twenty-one years, and just as many evolutions of personality and style later, I still say the heartburn was worth it.

*****

I've recounted this story for Josephine in various ways for the last twenty-one years, and each year I'm amazed—remembering the past and celebrating milestones like this one shows just how much each outgoing chapter shapes the next. If you’re curious about other chapters I’m writing these days—both in fiction and in life—make sure you check the sidebar for updates. You'll find progress info on my latest book-in-progress, recent releases, and my upcoming publishing schedule! And until next time, I hope as your story unfolds you will always strive to...