Phoenix Rising

People sometimes ask why I use a phoenix in my branding. Why I'm so intrigued by the destruction of fire, so inspired by beauty from ashes. The symbolism of a phoenix rising is violent—to rise from ashes, one must crash and burn. But in that process is resilience we don't always appreciate. It's reinvention. Rebirth. Something wholly new, dragged into existence by the death of what was.

It's trauma and growth, scars and strength working together. It's the process of overcoming fear, reclaiming your voice, and recognizing that healing is not linear. Because some of us were burned before we even noticed the fire. Some of us are still walking with a limp, searching for hope after trauma, wondering if beauty after brokenness is even possible.

This week, I wanted to announce that I've finally finished editing STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM. It's the second book in the Freedom Series, a story about a woman healing after domestic abuse. And I wanted the celebration. This is the first book I've written from scratch in a long time, and the first I've ever completed without the dog who lay beside me as I wrote all the others. I wanted the exhale of relief. The tidy bow.

I'm still editing. I'm almost done, and the book will be completed on time—but I am still editing. And maybe that feels fitting.

Because Christine's story was never about a finished woman arriving with a smile, neatly healed and perfectly polished. Christine is not the standard warrior woman archetype; she never comes out screaming survivor empowerment like that's the answer to everything. Actually, she's still mastering emotional recovery while life keeps dealing cards she doesn't know how to play.

The Freedom Series isn't about the slow burn romance or the friends-to-lovers twist. It has always been about the inner workings of the crash and burn. The painful death of what was. Christine's story is built on the reality of survivor resilience—stripped of the Instagram filters that would make it pretty—because the hard truth is, rebuilding after trauma is rarely pretty.

But it's also about the quiet pulse of life that warms the ashes after a hardcore crash-and-burn. The grit that drives post-traumatic growth, the rebirth of self-worth after abuse, and the process of learning to trust yourself again. We don't need to debate why survivors stay or untangle misconceptions about abuse. And true compassion for survivors needs more than a trauma-informed perspective.

Sometimes, real domestic abuse awareness comes from the example of women overcoming adversity, starting over after escaping...and then using pain to help others heal.

I grew up with disturbingly intimate knowledge of violence and terror because I saw it firsthand, and before I even hit middle school, I knew more than most people ever will about life after domestic abuse. I watched my mother struggle with the aftermath of starting over after divorce, clothed in shame and deafened by victim-blaming. She spent the rest of her life bitter and angry and starved for compassion.

And even with full awareness at an early age...I walked into terrible relationships as a young woman. Relationships where I should've known better. Where I should've left sooner. So maybe it's sad, but the graphic horror portrayed in the beginning of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM was actually the easiest part for me to write well. The physical pain and emotional battering were already there in lived experience—all I had to do was put it on paper.

The proudest moment of my career was an email from a woman apologizing because she couldn't read the book. She said it was too real. She said she had to have an emergency appointment with her therapist. And I grieved because it hurt her—but I also celebrated a job well done. Because she told me the realism honored truth most people aren't willing to look at.

Still, the legality of a criminal trial wasn't so easy, and the first edition of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM glossed over most of it. I told myself I would learn what was needed. I prayed over how I'd portray those scenes in the sequel, STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM.

And then life got crazy. A long-term relationship exploded. My kids developed serious health problems. My writing career was forcefully shifted to the back burner, and I felt like part of my soul had been ripped out. But writing is a part of who I am, so I made peace with that back burner—and left it quietly simmering. Waiting for resurrection. Because coming back to this part of myself was never about "if." It was always about "when."

I wrote the second edition of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM because I could no longer live with the idea of Christine's story staying unfinished. I owed her something more, and she deserved all the detail and nuance of her story—everything from the medical truth of her injuries to the intimidation of a courtroom. I had spoken with medical professionals, discussing logistics, treatments, healing times, scar tissue.

And I gave myself to researching the legal aspects of such a story. I watched true crime shows and police procedurals. I read statistical studies and courtroom transcripts like I was studying for a degree. I built a search history fit for an FBI inquisition. But it felt...sterile.

So I reached out to the local District Attorney, expecting nothing. I opened a reply in shock, and I read in awe as an ADA offered to make time for a story like mine.

We talked for almost two hours, tucked into a stuffy little office in a courthouse corner. He took notes on a legal pad as I outlined characters and plot lines, my hopes for the book, and my plan for the outcome. He sighed when I asked how realistic it sounded, and he put his pen on the desk. "I wish it always worked that way," he said, frowning as he shook his head. "What's hard is that it's not always flaws in the system. It's victims who won't cooperate, either because they're afraid or because they're in love."

He spoke like a man who knew more than the courtroom, and I wondered about his childhood. About his mother.

We talked about problems with support for victims of domestic abuse, both inside and outside of the legal system, and I told him about the Safe House program I created for the Freedom Series. For me, it felt hopeful and innovative—a gathering together of tools and resources my mother needed but never had access to. "But how possible is it?" I asked. "Do systems like that actually exist? Like, outside of food stamps here, and rent subsidies there, and counseling somewhere else? Is there anywhere that pulls those things together, especially with the life training my Safe House provides?"

And my heart shattered in my chest when he shook his head again. "We're getting there," he said. "The pieces are there, or at least forming. But they're still pieces. And what you're describing is infinitely better than anything that's out there right now, because it's holistic. I wish it wasn't fiction."

In those fleeting moments, briefly shared between a storyteller and a real-life hero for justice, a quiet truth settled in the air. This is what the writing is for. Fiction doesn't have to be real to illuminate gaps or offer hope. So I wrote STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, not only to finish the story, but to sit in the dark with people who feel lost. To clasp hands of sisterhood in the ashes of something ugly, and whisper affirmation that stokes a smoking ember back to life.

*****

The Freedom Series is not a love story. There is romance, because humans crave love no matter how broken they feel, but there is no handsome prince on a white horse. There is no helpless damsel. And there is no rescue.

There is a woman who questions her own judgement because abuse distorted everything she thought she knew about herself. A woman who persistently resists love because she's afraid of what will happen if it falls apart—and because she's afraid of what will happen if it doesn't. She learns to defend her heart as well as her body. She gets a job, signs a lease, sits through a criminal trial, and faces unimaginable turmoil at every turn.

The relationship is not salvation. Christine's exploration of a deliciously slow burn is evolution. It's the evidence of her courage and healing. It's hope that trades silence for solidarity and supports the quiet strength of reclaimed autonomy. It's experience that wipes away the tears and says, "You're not alone. I've been there."

I've cried through scenes in both books, and there are lines of dialogue that were actually spoken to me. Toxic thought patterns and cultural injustice are not sugar-coated or painted over with pretty colors. Because even in fiction, reality deserves recognition.

Sometimes, abuse awareness has nothing to do with not knowing, and everything to do with the way seeing makes us feel responsible. Because seeing asks something of us—and sometimes it's just easier not to look.

I choose to look. Not to dwell in darkness or wallow in the victimhood of trauma, but because the light of survival comforts those still finding their way. A wound cannot heal unless it is seen and tended to. A phoenix does not rise renewed until it has crashed and burned. And victims do not become survivors until they're able to name their circumstances. Until they learn that they don't need permission to survive or believe that there is life after this.

If Christine hits a little too close to home for you, I hope her story honors what you endured. If her story feels outrageous, I hope it widens your compassion and reminds you that every fire burns, even if your burning looks different from mine. I hope the truth of Christine's story softens a world that questions the victim before the abuser, and replaces those questions with an acknowledgment of how complicated "just leave" can be.

I may not be finished editing yet, and that's okay. Maybe I'm not quite finished healing yet, either. But I'm using what I have—hoping someone somewhere will read what I'm writing and believe just a little more in something better. Because every tear, every draft, and every hard conversation are worth it if they help you...

Life is fragile, but we’re stronger when we share it, and every day is an unopened gift. Sometimes it's heavy, sometimes it's light, but it's always worth unwrapping. So if my words helped you feel seen today, I'd love to keep sharing moments like this with you. Each week I send a quick recap directly to my favorite readers, including links to recent content, updates on my writing projects, and tidbits of my life behind the scenes. Want in? Sign up here!