The Scene That Broke Me This Week

Hey Everyone! How’s the week treating you so far? Personally, I’m just hanging in there as always doing the best I can with what I got. I am currently about two and a half weeks off of embarking on Signful Signings in Roanoke, VA. While this should be an exciting time of prep to support my friends and fellow authors, things have been a little crazy. 

For those that don’t know. P.A. Power will be one of the signing authors at this event. I’ve been tagged in as his PA for the weekend, which is amazing all in its own. I have been signing up for Sinful for the last three or so years. I always get wait-listed and let's just say it's hard to get into this event. So getting to go in any capacity will give the team and I a better perspective of whether or not it's worth still trying to get in. 

See, I have said this since my first appearance into the Booktok crowd, I am not everyone’s cup of tea. I don’t hold my tongue and I stand up for what needs to be stood up for. I am as abrasive steel wool. Not everyone is going to like me or what I write. These are just simple truths. And you know what that’s… not a bad thing. 

Here’s the real bead and butter outlook here. There are billions of people in the world. While most will have similar tastes no two are the exact same. I like certain things most of my friends don’t. I have one bestie, Izzy, that is as eclectic as it comes in her reading and music tastes. She has Spread sheets…. Lots of them… that will pin point you to a book that might or might not tickle your fancy. And it spans both traditional and Indie books. 

You also have our prompters for the Hold My Pen Promptcast. There are around 15 to 20 of us that take the exact same prompt every week and turn into 15 to 20 different stories. Some are brand new created for the Promptcast, some are continuations of the same story from the previous weeks or months. Hell, that is how Crossroads was written. Different prompts over the course of five months. 

Which leads me into the scene that broke me this week. Surprisingly enough it was not one that was written for the show. Even though there is a toss up when a certain young man writes for our show. Between him and a few others, I can either be scared out of my mind by simple things or hit straight in the feels. But no… this is one that came out of my own damn head. 

See I started yet another project… But I should be commended a little bit, it is in an active series. I didn’t just go off the deep end and create a whole new series for yet another WIP (work in progress for those not of the writing world). Which for me is huge progress, but I “DiGreg” (IYKYK). 

Anywho… The scene in question is when my FMC actually falls for the love interest. See she has no idea he’s loved her from the word go. And even though it is a contract marriage based story, she is a professional matchmaker/ wedding planner by trade. She facilitates everyone else's happily ever after, but can’t seem to grasp her own. When constraints on time hit on finding the perfect match, FMC does step in as the professional bride. For her its business, for them its image, and somewhere in between FMC becomes closed off in ways no person should ever have to. Until she meets said love interest and shit starts to go off the rails fairly quickly.  

I know what you're thinking… Jules, this sounds like something you typically write, so what’s the big deal? Well, for a lot of writers it's hard to write love when you're in pain. And while the tropes and genre are nothing new or even outside my wheelhouse, I have had a challenge laid at my feet when it comes to said project. Most if not all my FMCs have a tragic backstory or this big horrific event that challenges them to rise up and hit the situation with everything they got. Very much the “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” kind of characters. The “yes this horrible thing happened but I can stand on my own two feet because of it” kind of characters. 

Now, I have been challenged to write one without so much trauma. Without throwing everything including the kitchen skin at my character to see how she reacts or what she will do. Which is going to make some scenes that I write a little uncomfortable. Mainly because I am unfamiliar with the concept. I am very much a cause and effect kind of writer and woman. Almost 40 years of proof on that one. 

But looking at everything I have read of my outline and certain scenes that I know have to be a part of the book. Some scenes just aren’t meant to be comfortable or cozy. I will do my best to stretch the muscles of my abilities but I can’t shy away from the truth that relationships in any form are hard. Not all that glitters is gold, and sometimes the FMC is going to have to stand toe to toe with the MMC over something. Which is what made this week's scene, a sharp, unavoidable, and full of truth I wasn’t ready to face. 

We all have that moment in writing that cracked something open, makes us pause, and chest tighten. Not because it was dramatic for anyone else, but because it was true in the best ways possible. 

Scenes like this remind me why I write: to confront, to release, to witness. They hurt because they touch real fear, loss, or longing. They linger because they carry pieces of ourselves we hide in daylight. Or like Dom in Crossroads:

Dom left the room holding the secret he had known all along. This wasn’t the first time he had almost caught them in bed together, and if they wanted to play the same old game of nothing happened, who was he to say anything. 

Or Piper:

They had sworn to each other this was the last time. To the ache in both their hearts, they would never speak of the promises they had made to each other under the star littered sky. While that wasn’t the first night they had found solace in each other's arms it was certainly the most memorable one.

See, breaking a heart or hurting feelings doesn’t mean failing. It means noticing. Feeling. Reflecting. It’s a checkpoint, not a stop sign. The work that follows –rewriting, shaping, understanding– is where growth lives and a hell of a lot of character development for both you and them.

The scene that broke me didn’t defeat me. It made me look closer, dig deeper, and acknowledge what I might have ignored otherwise. That’s the kind of story worth telling. The kind of story worth writing. Sometimes, the hardest scenes are the most necessary. And the people challenging you to look at it through another lens, are trying to strengthen what you already have. Or they know you can do.

So… what was the hardest scene you ever had to write? Or what was the scene that hit you in the feels to the point you had to reevaluate some life choices? How are you processing it, carrying it forward, or letting it teach you? Share in the comments, or just sit with it quietly—the reflection matters.

See y’all tomorrow.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

What Keeps Me Writing When It Would Be Easier Not To

Hey Hey everyone! How’s everyone doing? Did we survive Valentine’s Day weekend without intentionally adding to the general population? Some won't know for a good four to six weeks. So, I hope the odds are forever in your favor. (Whichever favor you have chosen for you and yours.) 

Anywho… I made it through the bleak weekend with a particular Miley Cyrus song playing in my head. You all know the one. But then that had me to the point of screaming. Why because no person that is in a relationship, whether that be new or seasoned, should have to buy themselves flowers, take themselves dancing, or write their own damn names in the fucking sand. (Sorry a little salty….) 

Honestly, I feel more like Katy Perry’s Dark Horse. after all this time: “So, you wanna play with magic? Boy, you should know what you're fallin' for. Baby, do you dare to do this? 'Cause I'm comin' at you like a dark horse.” Even though now its more like… “Uh, she's a beast, I call her Karma. She'll eat your heart out like Jeffrey Dahmer. Be careful, try not to lead her on. Shorty heart is on steroids 'cause her love is so strong.”

Which is why some days, writing feels impossible. We are either the love, making matches and giving characters a “happily ever after” we didn’t actually get. OR we are the Karma in the background, ever watching for the fuck up waiting to happen, because lets be honest its going to happen. Whether that is by design or because one of our characters has run off with scissors cutting our plot to shreds… SHREDS, I tell you.

 The words become stuck just on the tips of our fingers or the edge of a thought. The brain becomes that thick eerie fog. Life always becomes too loud, exhausting, and relentless. Every part wants to close the document, turn off the screen, and pretend the story will survive without the engine that makes it go. 

And yet, I, like so many others out there, keep writing. Keep showing up and out. And most importantly coming up with the most off the wall things no one saw coming. Which is the humor behind the tragedy.

Why do I and others do this? Because stories aren’t just entertainment. For a hell of a lot of us, they’re survival. They’re therapy, confession, and reclamation. Writing is how we make sense of the chaos, process emotions, and most importantly to me, how I remember who I am in the middle of the noise and expectation that comes with being a Mom, Author, and Wife.

Sometimes it’s discipline, obsession, or just plain ass stubbornness. But always, it’s out of necessity. Because thoughts on paper are easier to deal with than thoughts just roaming around in my head like an annoying earworm. We get to play the “choose your own adventure” game every time we sit in front of our computers, notebooks, or tablets. That is both a great power and great responsibility. 

So what keeps me going on days like today, when the gremlin is home, husband can’t find a damn thing for himself, and I need just enough time to get the laundry done? Characters who demand to be heard, even when I’m already stretched to my limits. The urge to capture a fleeting thought before it disappears. The understanding that progress doesn’t require perfection. The knowledge that showing up, even imperfectly, matters.

Writing is rarely easy. It doesn’t owe us comfort. It challenges, exposes and it only asks for one damn thing. Persistence when persistence feels impossible. 

But that’s the point. The work isn’t in the perfect sentence or the flawless paragraph. It’s in the act of continuing. The act of creating when it would be easier to quit. The act of trusting that even a few words matter. It’s also in the *chefs kiss* one liner that you came up with at 1:30am instead of sleeping. 

So, I write. Even when stopping would be easier, but let's face facts: it wouldn’t be me. So many of my friends have told me to have grace with myself when I just couldn’t get the words out. Its not like they weren’t there but shit was so jumbled up it was like I hit a wall. We all know that wall. We call it writer's block, but what it actually is the equivalent of having a flat tire. Yea, you could keep going lipping that bitch down the road, but you are also going to fuck up a rim that you might not be able to replace. The rim being the hours of work that now doesn’t feel right, and now your mad at yourself for doing that. 

I’m not here to tell people to ignore burn out. I’m not here to tell you to not give yourself grace when shit is getting thicker than quicksand. I am telling you not to give up. If this is your passion, your calling, the first fucking thing you think of when you have a spare braincell to do so. Then Baby you are supposed to be doing this. 

But here is the most important question that I can’t answer for you. What keeps you moving? What keeps you showing up for your work, yourself and your characters, even when it would be easier to walk away? Where are you carrying forward effort, even when it feels invisible?

Share in the comments, or reflect privately the act itself counts.

Be Brave, Be Bold But Always Stay Humble

Mental Health vs Romanticized Pain

Hey hey, Peps. How are we doing today? Have you eaten? Drank water? No, well here is your sign to go do that. Me, well, it's been an eventful morning and it’s not even 11am yet. Hubby had a doctor's appointment and ended up getting a blocker shot in his neck/shoulder. Hopefully this will relieve the pain enough that he’ll be able to work without pain.

While waiting for him to come out, I had thoughts about today's post…. There’s a fine line between writing pain honestly and turning it into something beautiful enough to be misunderstood. Sit with that for a moment. I have recently, and by recently I mean within the last 30 minutes, found out that I apparently don’t. 

I give my character the situations to overcome with the accompanying trauma. I have tried to show the resilience people have, when they have their backs against the wall. Which apparently is not the case for everyone. For some that have been through the same things I have, they folded. I picked myself up, dusted off, lowered my shoulders and bulldozed through it with the grace of a bull in a china cabinet. My FMCs typically do the same thing. 

But in the writing world…. Suffering/enduring for love is a tail as old as time. Art, in all forms, has always been drawn to broken things. But somewhere along the way, pain started getting polished—made aesthetic, poetic, enviable. Mental illness became a vibe. Trauma became a personality trait. Endurance became a substitute for healing.

That’s where things get dangerous. Mainly due to the fact that “Dark Romance” romantics romanticize toxic relationships, tropes, and emotionally unavailable people. Basically the RED FLAGS. (BTW they are not Matri Gras beads, you do not need to collect them all.) Struggling doesn’t make someone more interesting. Being in pain doesn’t give a story depth by default. And surviving something awful doesn’t mean it should define a person forever. Which is what I have tried to portray with my characters, but according to some, have fallen massively short on.

Mental health isn’t romantic. It’s exhausting. It’s inconvenient. It’s repetitive. It’s unglamorous work done in private often without applause or visible progress. It’s setting boundaries no one claps for. It’s choosing stability over intensity, even when intensity feels more familiar.

Romanticized pain tells us suffering is proof of worth. Mental health asks us to unlearn that. And depending on what generation you are from, society tells us to suck it up, we are fine. Like Elsa, conceal don’t feel. 

As a reader, dark romances are my guilty pleasure. The bad boy claiming has always kinda been like my "OH REALLY" kind of thing. But... As a writer, I’m interested in what happens after the breaking point. After the dramatic moment. After the trauma is named but not magically resolved. I want quiet resilience. The awkward healing. The days where nothing explodes but something still shifts. And I actually thought I did that, well. 

I say all that to say this: Pain can be part of a story without being the whole story. We don’t need to glorify damage to tell the truth. We don’t need to stay wounded to stay compelling. Growth doesn’t erase what happened, it reframes it.

Also, I'm not here to yuck anyone else's yum. I am merely saying mental health work isn’t cinematic. It’s courageous anyway. And choosing healing over mythologizing your pain? That might be the bravest narrative choice of all.

So, where have you noticed pain being romanticized—in stories or in your own life? What are you choosing to carry forward that supports healing instead? Share if you feel comfortable. You’re not alone in this.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

Why Romance Isn’t Weak Writing

    Morning everyone. It’s another beautiful day in the neighborhood. Well in all actuality, I’m personally relishing in the quiet that is now my house. For at least a little while until, the Gremlin gets home from school. 

But I was sitting here, Red Bull in hand, staring out my window and realized something very important. Romance Isn’t Weak Writing. Loyalty, Love, Commitment, and hell Friendship all goes into the same category. 

Now there are various degrees of said acts, and some can take it from the cutie Rom-com to Dark, wrap your hands around the throat, in two seconds flat. Some fade to black or closed door, while others let it all hang out. Some writers are more formulaic or “cookie cutter”, while others come up with their own brand of how they deal with their stories. 

But calling romance “weak writing”, “thoughtless writing”, or even “lazy writing” has always said more about the critic than the genre. Especially in a billion-dollar business model that seems to have an evenish number of readers on both sides of the fence. 

While yes, the Romance community is mostly built on female readers, but men, especially those in the Booktok world, are more than likely just as interested if not more. We have the bad boy bikers, Mafia Don’s, Sports, Mechanics, and let's not forget the billionaires. I mean we have every person that has the badassest job there is or will be a story for it. 

Romance is one of the few places in fiction where emotional stakes are allowed to be the point. Where vulnerability isn’t a side effect—it’s the engine. And that makes people uncomfortable. Especially in a world that rewards detachment, cynicism, and emotional distance.

Romance demands intimacy. It asks writers to explore fear, desire, trust, power, longing, loss—all without armor. It requires precision in emotional pacing, not just plot mechanics. You can’t fake chemistry. You can’t shortcut consent. You can’t phone in emotional growth and expect readers to stay.

If anything, romance is harder to write well. It forces characters (and the author) to confront themselves. To be seen. To risk rejection. To change. And change—real change—is one of the hardest things to write convincingly.

Romance also carries a cultural bias. Stories centered on connection, care, and emotional labor—especially when written by women—are often dismissed as frivolous or indulgent. But there is nothing frivolous about examining how people love, survive, and choose each other in a complicated world.

Romance isn’t weak because it deals with feelings. It’s strong because it refuses to treat them as disposable. A well-written romance can dismantle power structures, challenge trauma responses, and show resilience in ways action-driven narratives often avoid. Love becomes the battlefield. Trust becomes the risk. Healing becomes the victory. That’s not soft. That’s brave.

Romance doesn’t exist to lower the bar of storytelling. It raises it—by asking writers to go deeper, not louder. And hell look into there own lives and experiences going how would I have done that differently. How would that of played out if XYZ happened instead?

Lets face facts here peps…. Romance has only been a widely excepted genre in the last 50ish years. Before that, people hid what they read, wrote, or talked about when it was book related. Romance has gotten a bad rep from being blamed for making women delicate, irrational, and in danger of being ruined by the unrealistic, dramatic, or immoral scenarios depicted in fiction to, as some had put it, letting your “freak flag fly” openly. 

Most women, and a few men from what I’ve heard, didn’t start delving into their likes or dislikes until they read it. Once they had that eternal spark light something they didn’t even know was possible. Which is good on the Author for making their readers feel something they didn’t know was there. 

So, I say all of that to say this. If you are writer of Romance, don’t listen to the critics. Opinions are like assholes, everyone’s got one and they all stink. You keep pushing forward and carve out a name for yourself. Readers, now its y’all turn…. LEAVE THE DAMN REVIEW. And be constructive about it. What didn’t you like vs. what you did? Because a simple “I didn’t like it” doesn’t tell us anything. 

Okay…. Now that I have half ass said my peace, I am off to get more of the laundry done and some more writing. Because lets face it 500k isn’t going to write itself and the books are trapped in my head. But leave a comment below with What’s a romance story that changed how you see love—or yourself? What are you carrying forward from the stories that stayed with you?

See you tomorrow.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

Love Stories, Even When Love Hurts

Hey Hey everyone, long time no see. Its been one hell of a ride over here. Tennessee got hit with the snow, and well you know how that goes… everything got grinded to a halt. Gremlin also got a two week vacation due to road conditions. So needless to say, my work schedule got thrown out the window, my house looks like a tornado hit it (because in all reality it did), and my sanity packed it bags and took the first thing smoking to warmer weather. 

So with that being said…. I thank all of you for sticking around. I will try to do better with posting, but life is fixing to get crazy and its gonna be one hell of a ride. What do I mean you ask? 

Well…. In about a month, I’ll be heading to Sinful Signings in Roanoke, Va. No, I’m not lucky enough just yet to be a signing author there, but my bestie P.A. Power is. I will be going to be his PA. So, LOTS to do there and lots of things to handle along the way. And its not slowing down from there. I have Indy in Indy in Aug. So, I have tons of work to do before that one comes up…. Plus, I’m starting to book my events for 2027.

Which is what got me to thinking, I have published two books since 2022. Destined For More and Crossroads. Two different series, two completely different concepts, but two massively important things in common…. One they both have badass women that in the end take-ith no shit. Second, they are romances. And it took years (AND I DO MEAN YEARS) to admit: Yes, I write romance. 

I write love stories even when love is the thing that broke me, and continues to break me everyday. Let me elaborate on that little before I move on. I love Spring and I love Fall, but it breaks my heart when they don’t get to stick around very long. I love my Gremlin, but there are days I wonder if I will ever get to hear him say those words back to me. I love/ tolerate the man I married. Because there are days I have to remind myself Orange doesn’t look good on me. Mainly because he’s promised to do something or take the Gremlin off my hands for a few hours so I can have just an afternoon of un-interruptions. What I get is complaints, him sound asleep, or completely ignoring his environment in favor of his phone. 

But it's then I remember my characters, especially then.

Because love isn’t just softness, safety, and happy endings tied up with a bow. Love is complicated. It’s messy. It leaves marks and scares. It teaches lessons you didn’t ask for and hands you grief right alongside joy.

And still—we keep reaching for it.

I don’t write love as a fantasy of perfection. I write it as survival. As choice. As something people carry even when it weighs them down. Love that hurts isn’t fake love. It’s unfinished love. Misaligned love. Love that collided with timing, trauma, fear, or growth and didn’t come out unscathed.

Some of the most honest love stories don’t end cleanly. They end truthfully. They show what it costs to care deeply. They show the aftermath—what people become after loving hard and losing anyway. They ask harder questions than will they end up together? They ask what did this change in them? and what do they carry forward?

I write love because it matters, even when it wounds. Because heartbreak doesn’t erase meaning. Because tenderness can exist alongside damage. Because choosing to feel, to hope, to try again—that’s its own kind of courage.

If love never hurt, it wouldn’t shape us the way it does.

So yes, I write love stories that ache. Love stories that burn slow. Love stories that don’t always offer comfort—but offer recognition instead.

And sometimes, that’s the kind of love we need most.

What kind of love stories speak to you right now—the soft ones, the painful ones, or the honest-in-between? What are you carrying forward, even if it still hurts? Tell me in the comments.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

Mom Mode After the Holidays: Resetting the House & the Nervous System

Hey hey everyone! It's Sunday, a day of rest and reset. A day for reflection if you will. But not for me and unfortunately not in this house. See after the holidays and a break from school, the house always tells on us. Items are everywhere, dishes are never ending, and our homes look like battle zones we barely survived. 

Extra noise, Extra mess, Extra stuff that doesn’t quite belong anywhere at the moment. The routines are off, the sleep is weird, and everyone’s nervous system feels like it’s been run through a blender along with our sanity. Everyone seems a little short tempered, no one really wants to do anything, and yet the mess grows unprompted. 

So before I reset the house, I reset myself. No amount of organizing works if everyone is still dysregulated from the almost two-ish weeks of chaos. And let's face a blinding fact here… If you have children still in your home that you can’t send outside, running behind you playing wrecking ball to everything you just managed to get clean… you're going to be pulling your damn hair out.

For me, the post-holiday reset isn’t about deep cleaning or reinventing systems. It’s about reducing stimulation. Fewer decisions. Fewer piles. Fewer expectations stacked on top of already-tired people. And let's not forget containment. Because as long as the mess is contained to that one room (or at least the rooms the mess belongs to) it's a whole lot easier to deal with it.

Tomorrow, once the gremlin is on the bus and I have sat in the silence that is the regaining of my salinity, I will start small. Trash out. Dishes caught up. One surface cleared at a time. Not because the house needs to look perfect—but because visual calm helps bodies settle. Then I reset the rhythms.

Bedtimes inch back into place. Meals get simpler. We go back to what works instead of what looks good online. Because let's face it, what people try to sell us online is probably hours of cleaning packaged into a 60 second video. Predictability is grounding, especially for kids—and especially after weeks of disruption. 

I’m also lowering the bar for myself. Not to be lazy, but to keep a larger chunk of my salinity in place every day. With all the goals that I have set out for myself in 2026, timing is what’s going to keep me on track with a full head of steem. No jumping in guns blazing and then crying in the shower in a week or three when shit doesn’t start to pan out. No. No. HELL NO. Life is one thing at a time.

This isn’t the week for ambitious goals or elaborate plans. It’s a week for nervous system repair. For noticing who’s overwhelmed. For choosing connection over productivity when possible. And setting the foundation. Because we all know a weak foundation will have a house crumbling into the yard before you can say don’t do it. Writing, housework, and just general life is no different.

A regulated parent sets the tone, even when things aren’t ideal. So, I will be taking breaks when I need them, stepping outside, and breathing. I will remind myself that recovery isn’t laziness—it’s maintenance. And if I don’t put my mask on first, I can’t help those around me. (Which will be the hardest lesson of all.)

The house will reset in layers and so will we. What matters most isn’t how fast everything gets back to normal—it’s how we get there. And for a lot of us that’s basically out here doing it on our own, I see you. You’re doing an amazing job whether you know it or not. Shits hard sometimes, but we have to keep our feet moving. 

So, what’s your first call to action once the littles are back to school this season? What are some of your goals going into this week? Have you checked on your laundry? Leave me a comment below and lets talk about it.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble.

What Writing Gives Me When Therapy Isn’t Enough.

Happy Saturday! I hope everyone is well. That you’re starting the year off slow, and with purpose. Me, well I’m hanging in there the best I can right now. Working out some new things and hoping something sticks. That’s the best we can do right? 

Today, we are going to just jump right in on something I find extremely serious. Mental Health…. Something that we all battle on a day to day basis. Whether that is personal or with those around us, we all have someone in our lives that has hidden battles they are fighting.

Fast Facts

More than 1 in 5 U.S. adults experience mental illness each year

More than 1 in 20 U.S. adults experience serious mental illness crisis each year

More than 1 in 7 U.S. youth ages 6-17 experience a mental health disorder each year

50% of all lifetime mental illness begins by age 14, and 75% by age 24

Suicide is the 2nd leading cause of death among people ages 10-24

Only 42.1% of Males and 59.2% of Females seek treatment

79% of people who die by suicide in the U.S. are male

The suicide rate is nearly 4x higher among males than females in the U.S.

Transgender adults are nearly 9x more likely to attempt suicide at some point in their lifetime compared to the general population

*Statics are based off assigned gender at birth* 

https://www.nami.org/about-mental-illness/mental-health-by-the-numbers/

So, you're probably asking yourself, “What does this mean for me?” Well, it means you're not alone. None of us really are. We might not all come from the same background, creed, color, or region of the world. But we all have something very basic in common…. We are all human. We all feel, bleed, and love. 

Therapy can help… I want to say that up front. It gives you language, perspective, and tools. It helps untangle things that you might not be able to name on my own. It teaches how to pause instead of react, how to notice patterns instead of drowning in them.

But sometimes, it isn’t enough. And that's okay too.

In the spirit of honesty and transparency, I personally haven’t gone since I was ordered to do so. I was in elementary school when I started seeing a counselor. They said I had anger issues… what no one dared to ask was why I had those issues. What made me lash out. That’s when I was 6 and started writing. So began the budding author.

After that, it was an on and off thing when it came to therapy. Something would happen at school and land me in front of a professional for 6 to 8 weeks. When it was over, I had more interesting terms for my character. 

It wasn’t until I was pregnant with the gremlin that I was kind of going to therapy. My mom suckered me into a few family sessions under the guise of “it will be good to deal with things before my child was born”. I wouldn’t say it worked for me but it gave me ways of dealing with taking care of both mom and my son.

And even with mom’s passing, June 16th 2024, I haven’t sought out therapy. Not because it won’t work, but because some things don’t want to be processed. They want to be expressed. They want somewhere to go that isn’t linear, polite, or solution-oriented. They want to RAGE. 

That’s where writing steps in. It’s the safest way of processing without actually laying my hands on another person. I can’t say my characters have not been the victims of my wrath. Or had to play out situations that I have personally been through. Their outcome came out a little better than mine did by the end of the story. 

But in the end writing gives me a place where I don’t have to explain the context before debating how much truth comes out. Where I can contradict myself, circle the same wound, say the wrong thing first. It lets me lay everything out without being asked “what I’m going to do about it”, “how did that make you feel”, or my personal favorite “Did you pray about it?”

On the page, nothing needs to be fixed immediately if at all…. Hell in the end it all becomes character development, or plot twists.

Writing doesn’t rush me toward healing. It lets me sit inside the mess long enough to understand its shape. It holds the anger, the grief, the numbness—without trying to smooth it into something inspirational. Because in the end PAIN should never be used that way. If it inspires you to do something different, that's one thing. If you can use it later down the line as a cautionary tale, even better. But this isn’t a “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” 

There are thoughts I can only reach when I’m not being witnessed in real time. Emotions that show up sideways, through metaphor and rhythm and fragments. Writing gives those parts permission to exist without judgment. 

It also gives me distance. An outside looking in perspective. Because sometimes it's looking at it from all the different angles that helps us learn how to handle it differently. Sometimes that’s all we need. 

When something lives on the page, it no longer lives rent free in my head. I can look at it. Shape it. Decide what stays and what gets revised. That control—small as it is—matters when the world feels unmanageable. And worse case, you can always set fire to it and cast it out. It no longer serves you. And now it doesn’t serve anyone cause it doesn’t exist any longer.

Therapy helps most survive the darkness, writing is what helps me. Both have their place. Both are necessary. But when the talking stalls, when insight doesn’t bring relief, when coping tools feel blunt—writing is where I go to remember myself.

I’m in no way an expert on any of this, but I am one of the many that has suffered through trauma in spades, abuse of all kinds, and now stands here a little wiser, a whole lot crazier, and a wholeheartedly unapologetically me. 

So, I want you to do one thing for me as we navigate another season of uncertainty. Breathe. Just fucking Breathe. Then pick up a notebook, scrap of paper, hell a napkin if you can make it work, and give me three reasons why you need to stay. Cause I can give you one right off the bat. The World Will Not Be The Same Without You In IT. Now your turn. And every time the world gets loud or your brain tells you shit that isn’t true. Do it again.

When words fail you out loud, where do you go instead? What gives you release when talking it through isn’t enough? Tell me in the comments—or keep it close and write it out for yourself. Remember there are resources out there that can help. 

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble