My mom and best friends begged to read it. I lovingly told them, “absolutely fucking not.”

So I shoved it into Google Docs where it lived like a chaotic little secret. I opened it when life felt overwhelming. When my brain wouldn’t shut up. When I needed somewhere to put all the feelings.

Then 2020 hit.
I was working as a speech-language pathologist and director of a rehab unit when Covid rolled in and anxiety kicked the door back down. Writing became the only thing that quieted it. The only thing that felt mine.

After relentless family pressure (and yes, partially because my mom wanted a physical copy to casually display during card night like “oh this? my daughter wrote that”), I published The Celestra.

I expected maybe 12 people to read it.
Instead… it took off.

Fast forward a few years and I’ve walked away from the full-time job and stepped into a dream I didn’t even know I was allowed to have. I now have multiple self-published books, more plotting in the background, and morally gray men living rent-free in my head at all times.

This journey has been chaotic, healing, terrifying, empowering, spicy, and wildly unexpected.

I’m still a neuro SLP at heart. Still a mom. Still slightly feral about politics. Still quoting Taylor.

But now? I get to tell stories for a living. And honestly… that feels a little unhinged in the best way.

Welcome to the chaos.