I used to wake up singing. Now I sit at a barely-worn cherry piano, fingers finding notes but no words coming. Sometimes the deepest roots need the longest winters—and tomorrow, finally, will be warmer.
divorce recovery
Dr. Bogin Would Be Proud: How My Therapist’s Legacy Lives On in 987 Tuesday Nights
Dr. Bogin would smile behind his round black frames if he could meet Charming at our Thanksgiving party. He taught me that no day is wasted, even the 5,127 we spent apart. Now I see: God doesn't work in clean slates—He works in yearbook themes where everything connects.
Introducing Charming to the People Who Loved Me When I Was Dead Inside
Joanie and Bob met me when I was a fallen woman hiding in my childhood bed after divorce. They loved me anyway. This Christmas, they finally met Charming—and emailed that he's 'handsome, delightful, and perfect' for the restored woman they always knew I'd become.
Three Men, One Rollercoaster, and the Memory That Won’t Stay Buried
I've ridden the Griffon with three different men—my ex-husband, a rebound, and now Charming. Time buried the first memory but not the second. Sometimes we don't get on rollercoasters for the climb; we're seeking the thrill of the drop.
What My Herb Garden Taught Me About Planting Seeds After Divorce
Saturday's 40 mph winds had me worried about my newly planted seeds. But gardens teach us this: we can't know which seeds will thrive, go dormant, or blow away. We plant anyway, because the potential for future joy is worth the calculated risk.
The Oak Tree Fell in February, but I’m the One Who Got Replanted
For months, the hollow oak lay in my backyard—an eyesore, then a barrier, then a mirror. Like that tree, I'd stood tall in Nashville while rotting inside. But somewhere between Syracuse's disposal and Hampton's soil, a seed found new ground.
My Creative Writing Teacher Called Every Poem a MADAM—She Was Really Teaching Me About Life
Mrs. Shelton taught me that every poem is a MADAM: the Most Acceptable Draft At the Moment. "Never fall in love with a first draft, Laura Joy," she'd say. Turns out she wasn't just teaching me about poetry—she was teaching me how to revise my entire life after divorce.
The Hollow Tree in My Backyard and the Woman Who Climbed on Top
A storm felled the ancient tree behind my house, revealing it was hollow inside. As I climbed its trunk, I wondered: How many of us stand tall while rotting at the base? At least I can still count my rings.
Writer's Growth 