I’ve been writing for over nineteen years; poems, stories, fragments, sketches of thought that refuse to stay quiet. Inspiration doesn’t knock politely; it leaks in from everywhere. Television static. Flickering tech. Trees bending in bad weather. The world outside is loud and beautiful and broken. It all feeds the work. Writing and crafting aren’t hobbies for me; they’re survival tools.
I’m an autistic mother to a rainbow boy, which means my heart exists permanently outside my body. Pregnancy was brutal, especially in Texas, and moving back to Pennsylvania quite literally saved me. Trauma has a way of sharpening your vision. Motherhood sharpened it further.
Before this chapter, I worked as an investigative journalist for a private organization, helping expose corruption in businesses and institutions that thrived in the dark. I’ve been deeply involved in animal rights advocacy, and I continue to stand for both animal and human rights. I’ve volunteered as a social worker, worked in veterinary programs during summers, and stayed relentlessly busy partly out of passion, partly out of necessity.
I didn’t grow up in a happy home. That truth informs everything I create. It’s also why I build better now, deliberately, fiercely for my child. I believe in breaking cycles. I believe in softness earned the hard way. I believe art can be both a blade and a balm.
I live with multiple neuropathies and genetic Type 2 diabetes. I am a survivor even on the days when pain turns the volume up to cruel, I move forward anyway. The pain is always there; what changes is how loudly it speaks.
Peripheral autonomic neuropathy means my autonomic nervous system (ANS), the part that controls things you’re never supposed to have to think about, like heart rate, blood pressure, digestion, and temperature, doesn’t always cooperate. Polyradiculopathy affects multiple nerve roots along the spine, sending pain, weakness, and misfired signals through my body. Neuropathy, in its many forms, damages the nerves themselves, distorting sensation, movement, and endurance.
My neuropathy was caused by medical negligence. During an emergency C-section, I was given bupivacaine alongside five shots of dextrose, with no insulin to counter it. The epidural remained lodged in my spine for three days. What followed wasn’t recovery, it was damage. That trauma accelerated my genetic Type 2 diabetes as if it had been put on steroids, setting off a cascade my body is still managing.
Nothing about my hospital stay in 2017 was normal. The consequences are permanent.
Some days my body feels like faulty wiring in a storm. Still, I create. Still, I parent. Still, I choose motion over surrender. Pain may live here, but it does not get authorship.
This site is a collection of what I see, what I’ve survived, and what I refuse to look away from. If you’re here, welcome. Stay as long as you need.
