I didn’t always know I was a writer.

For years, I was building — businesses, futures, identities, the story of a woman who could carry it all. I became someone who could survive anything. I went from being homeless at 19 to retiring at 51.

But survival is not aliveness.

There came a moment when everything I had built no longer felt like home. A quiet unraveling. A return to my own skin, my own breath, my own voice.

There were seasons of loss, illness, endings, grief, and starting over from nothing. And there were seasons of unexpected beauty, love returning, and strength that did not come from striving, but from softening.

These experiences didn’t make me wounded.

They made me wise.

Writing is how I remember who I am.

It is how I stay close to what is true.

It is how I continue becoming.