For a long time, the sun rose and set in my husband. Now I chase the light at the water's edge, and I have learned the difference between an idol and a God.
Yorktown
Enough, Without the Fireworks
Three years ago I wrote that I was enough without the fireworks, and hoped it was true. This year, by the river, I found I could hold both the rare light and the daily one.
The Same Shorelines
A year ago, my husband renewed our vows at sunrise. This week, separating belongings, I found the card he'd given me that day. So much can change in a year.
Memories, Anchors, and Prisons
The sunrise is supposed to be the opposite of the prison. Then Sunday morning, he was there. Tonight, I begin the part of trauma therapy that's supposed to help me leave the room I'm still trapped in.
The Week the Book Left My Hands
My book has been out for one week. In that week, I sent over two hundred personal messages and watched the responses break me open in a way the writing never did. The book is finding the people it was written for.
Going Through the Motions
I don't feel alive, but I was grateful for breath in my lungs. For quiet. For stillness. I keep showing up. Sunrise. Gym. School. Sea glass. Repeat. The daffodils came back, so will I.
The Tree That Bends but Doesn’t Break in a Hurricane
I woke up this morning a Palma. On the fifty-fourth anniversary of my grandmother's death and the third of Joshua's, I walked to the water at sunrise carrying a name that is mine again. Here's what I know about palm trees: they're designed for hurricanes.
Writer's Growth 