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Some things can’t be talked out—so I write instead.

Memoir is all risk, no guarantees, but it’s how I keep trying to see what’s real.

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Medusa didn’t ask to petrify.

She just looked too closely,

and no one left without something hardening.

That’s how I feel, some days—

like I could name someone’s worst moment

and be right.

That’s the part that scares me:

not the curse,

but how easily it fits.

I don’t turn people to stone.

I just write the kinda sentence that

makes them wish I hadn’t looked so long.

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“If you don’t love yourself you will always be chasing after people who don’t love you either.”

— Mandy Hale

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My Libby-loo embraced motherhood as naturally as she once laced up her tap shoes; spotting Elodie’s grin in her baby photos was like watching time fold in on itself.

Our mom is a quiet archivist of love. She ferrets out meaning in every scrap of handmade artwork she saves. These poems grew from small‑but‑mighty moments, honoring two women (of many greats in my life) who keep love marching forward.

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“That was your first baptism in saltwater tears and scalding boardwalk shame.”

A new poem about girlhood, guilt, and the kind of dads who never quite wake up.

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Ever notice how Memory snags on things you'd rather not think about?

"Nightless Days" turns that nagging beast into

N ó t t l e y s a—

a sun‑lovin' spider who gorges on every “could've/should've” I’ve tried to forget. This poem is my way of pulling each sticky regret into the sun until the entire web snaps and burns.

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n ó t t l e y s a

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She said, I heard you have problems with everyone. And she said, You’re disrespectful. Greedy. Too much. And you listened.

Maybe it was them. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was both.

You’d say I love you so like it was a balm for wounds you refused to dress. But still— still—I’d cling to it like a kid clutching a wet match, trying to start a fire in the middle of a hurricane.

I remember the hush after their words were flung. Their jealous gazes fossilized by your silence. Their lies, calcifying around the shape of me.

I was afraid you’d see what they saw— some selfish little leech, siphoning your last bit of love. Like I didn’t come from that love. Like I wasn’t trying to protect your love.

You always told me you loved me so. Over and over. Until the words felt thin, like a curtain I could see through but not reach past.

And now, I can’t unhear the echoes. Did they lie about me— or just repeat what they heard from you?

I don’t know what to think anymore. But I know how it felt— the tight coil in my stomach whenever the phone rang, the way I swallowed my whole self to make room for someone you might love more.

Gods, I loved you so. And I was so scared you wouldn’t love me back once you believed them.

Did you?

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Another birthday, another existential crisis.

It turns out that I'm still chasing a timeline that my 10-year-old self concocted. This year, I’m finally letting that nonsense go. Grab some cake and commiserate. 🎂

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Movies promised me lifelong friendships; family promised unconditional love. Turns out neither was guaranteed.

“You can run from the disappointments you’re trying to forget. But it’s only when you embrace your past that you truly move forward.” —Samantha, Now and Then

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Memory is a Fickle Bitch. Pinning her down on the specifics of an event is tiresome. A giant beach ball or the scent of pancakes in the morning may gently nudge Memory along, but sometimes it takes banging her hardhead against a wall to shake the whole story loose.

For me, the early aughts are the head-banging sort, splattering the wall with enough gore to paint Memory a mural so grotesquely grand it might just win an award for “Best Unintentional Tribute to Catastrophic Conclusions Ever.”

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If Only I Listened: the Olden Golden Days

Picture this: a distant relative’s slightly creepy comments about your cute bare-bottomed toddler days, complete with pinchy fingers and a sigh, urging you, Don’t grow up too fast, yah hear? That image is ubiquitous; it represents a stepping stone we all take to reach adulthood.

It’s ironic, really. Life’s greatest lessons aren’t taught by our overworked, underpaid teachers but by Father Time…

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Memoir Musings: the Power of Second Person POV

Have you ever embarked on an exciting writing experiment that seemed brilliant at first, only to encounter an obstacle (or several)? Welp, that’s been my experience exploring the second-person point of view for my memoir. While initially promising, I now doubt it’ll be the right fit for my narrative voice. However, before I toss it aside completely, I tinkered with the parameters of my…

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Before Wi-Fi: the Generation of Imagination

post inspo: memoir musings (any thoughts I have while working on the memoir) // the Bo Burnham: INSIDE comedy special, especially the songs “30” and “Welcome to the Internet” // Mary Karr, always Most things about adulthood in 2024 2025 are frustrating.

Case in point: I refused to call myself an “adult” until I hit 30. Now, at almost 32, I’m still not sure I’ve earned the title. These days, when someone says, “Your phones are poisoning your minds,” I don’t immediately dismiss it as out-of-touch boomer drivel. I wonder if Bo Burnham was onto something. But if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this: I am endlessly grateful for growing up in the early aughts.

Unlike today’s hyper-connected kiddos, 90s-born millennials had the gift of a childhood that was mostly tech-free. Back then, I found this limitation deeply annoying. How dare I not have an iPad in third grade? But looking back, I realize just how lucky I was to exist in that sliver of time when boredom was an art form, and creativity was the only cure...

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I love the artist's style and the quotes they gravitate toward.

As paraphrased from Gustav Mahler's second symphony (fifth movement): "You were not born for no reason. You have not lived for nothing. Nor suffered in vain. What has lived must also perish What has perished shall rise again." Happy Winter Solstice.

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Delightful digital design.

The concept and execution of all the interwoven themes are fantastic.

Never walk into a cage willingly. If you're already in one: break out.

Digital faux linocut.