all of it, honestly

I write from the places I never meant to return to. The moments that split my life open, the nights that rewired something quiet and essential in me.

My work comes from the aftershocks, the echoes, the shadows that lingered long after I pretended I’d moved on. These are the memories that stayed sharp, the ones that shaped me in ways I didn’t understand until much later.

What I write isn’t an attempt to make sense of it all. It’s the record of what didn’t let go…what refused to go. The fragments I carried, the truths that surfaced on their own timeline, the pieces I tried to bury, but kept feeling anyway.

These pieces are what remained when everything else fell away. Not polished. Not softened. Just the truth, the way it felt from the inside. The versions that don’t ask for permission, forgiveness, or explanation.