I Write (Even When It’s Hard)

I never set out to be an author.

As a child, I wrote simply to process what was happening in my world. Those were the days when kids still wrote in diaries—before iPads and phones changed how we express ourselves. I still remember my very first diary. I must have been about eight when I got it. The cover was splashed with rainbows, and it had one of those tiny locks meant to guard the secrets inside. I wonder if I still have it somewhere, and what I thought was worth locking up at eight years old.

But even as I kept writing, I had to come to terms with a tough truth: I was not a natural writer. I spilled my thoughts onto paper exactly as they came to me—raw, unfiltered, unorganized.

Eventually, I set the pen aside. For years. Maybe decades.

Then life brought me back.  When my son, Ethan, passed away from a rare genetic disease, I knew I needed to write his story. I needed to give shape to my grief and hold onto his memory in the only way I knew how—through words.  I wrote down everything I could remember about him at the time.

Ten years later, I’m still writing that story. I’m no closer to finishing it than when I started. But I’ve learned a lot along the way—about writing, about myself, and about how writing can heal and bring joy.

I also learned to write for different reasons—to create, to connect, and to celebrate the wonder of life—especially through the eyes of children. I write silly, heartfelt, magical stories that come to me in moments of unexpected inspiration.

And while I may never be a "natural writer," I’ve come to believe that writing is less about being perfect and more about being your authentic self.

If I ever write anything that brings even a single moment of joy to a child, then I’ll know I’ve done something worthwhile.