I’m a collector of quiet things—half-thoughts, slow mornings, unsent letters, and the kind of emotions that linger longer than they should. I write somewhere between essay and spellwork, mostly about memory, loss, tenderness, and the ache of almosts. My words aren’t here to fix anything—they’re just here to sit with what hurts, to name the unspoken, and to leave a little more room for softness.
My books—Soft Things That Hurt, What Still Lingers, Halfway to Whole, and others—aren’t written to be devoured. They’re meant to be returned to. Underlined. Carried in tote bags. Reread when the weather inside you changes. I write for the in-between: the half-healed, the half-hopeful, the quietly undone.
“I write these by hand first. Usually in the morning. Sometimes in silence. Always with intention.”
When I’m not writing, I’m usually reading, rearranging notebooks I never finish, or making tea I forget to drink. I believe in the power of silence, the poetry of unanswered questions, and the strange comfort of being understood by someone you’ve never met.
I write about the things most people rush past—unspoken endings, soft griefs, memory, restlessness, and the ache of almost. My work lives in the quiet corners of the human experience: the in-between, the unfinished, the deeply felt but rarely said.
Through books, essays, and slow letters, I try to name what lingers. I don’t offer answers. I offer language—so you know you’re not the only one feeling what you feel.
Some of my books have been honored with awards and contest wins, though I never write with that in mind. The recognition is meaningful, of course—but it’s the quiet messages from readers, the underlined sentences, the dog-eared pages that matter most to me. Still, I’m grateful when the work is seen. When the soft things I write make enough noise to be noticed.
“This book didn’t just speak to me—it sat beside me in silence until I was ready to hear it.”
I don’t write to be heard. I write to name the feeling you couldn’t explain until now.
I didn’t grow up planning to be a writer. I just learned early on that silence had weight—and writing was the only way I could shape it into something that made sense. While other kids passed notes about crushes and plans, I was folding tiny poems into the spine of my notebooks and collecting sentences like charms. I never read books just once. I reread them like I was listening for something I’d missed the first time.
I spent years writing in private—unfinished essays, unsent letters, entire pages I burned because they felt too honest. It took a long time to share anything publicly, and even longer to realize that the things I was most afraid to say were the ones readers held onto the hardest. My first book wasn’t meant to be a book at all. It was a collection of fragments written on bad days, better mornings, and nights I wasn’t sure I’d get through.
Now, I write full time. Not loudly. Not quickly. Just honestly. My books live in the quiet spaces between genres, stitched together with emotion and memory. I don’t write to teach or to solve. I write because some feelings need a shape—and some people need to know they’re not alone in having them.
My readers are the ones who find the quiet parts and stay a while.
They’re not just turning pages—they’re carrying the work into their own lives. They underline the softest sentences, send late-night messages about the ones that hurt in the right way, and hold space for the emotions I wasn’t sure anyone else would understand. I write alone, but I’m never really alone because of them.
My beta team meets the work before it’s ready to be seen.
They’re the ones who sit with raw drafts, incomplete thoughts, and scenes I haven’t quite figured out yet. Their feedback isn’t about polish—it’s about feeling. They ask the right questions, point to what aches, and help shape the bones of the story with patience and care. Their presence is quiet but foundational, like scaffolding you only notice once it’s gone.
I’ve written a small library of soft, aching things—books that sit quietly on shelves and say the hard parts out loud. My titles include Soft Things That Hurt, What Still Lingers, Halfway to Whole, The Quiet Between Lightning, The Art of Being Almost, and A Home for All My Leaving. Each book is a stitched-together meditation on emotion, memory, grief, and becoming—and none of them were written in a rush. They were written slowly, like healing.
My work has also appeared in a handful of quiet corners across the literary world. You’ll find essays and fragments published in The Stillness Quarterly, Ash & Feather, Velvet Margin, Of Memory & Light, and The Wandering Sentence Review. I don’t submit often, but when the piece insists on being shared, it tends to find its way. These publications gave those pieces a home before the books were ready to hold them.
