I didn’t stumble into writing until much later in life, but when I did, it felt less like discovering something new and more like remembering a language I had always known. Writing was never about escaping the world; it was about circling back to myself. After years of navigating chronic illness and carrying the quiet shadows of old wounds, I craved a way to let those truths breathe. Storytelling became that doorway, less an art form, more a kind of soul alchemy.

By the time pen finally met paper, I had already journeyed through deep healing, guided by mindfulness, embodied practices, and the tender strength born from learning to sit with pain and still rise. On the page, all of it wove together: the ache and the wonder, the scars and the stardust. Fantasy twined itself with truth, and the stories I once could only dream began to unfurl their wings.

You can sign up to get updates here.