Once a professional avoider with a flair for emotional survivalism, I now write to make sense of my innards.

This isn’t a hot take delivery service, but it does have the occasional thinkpiece.

I write about self-discovery, unlearning, family wounds, shame hangovers, late bloomers, inner child tantrums, and the absurdity of healing in a world that profits off our disconnection. Sometimes I’m tender, sometimes I’m snarky, usually I’m both.

I don’t promise answers, but I do promise honesty. And maybe a little hope?

I’m 36, talk about the olden days as if I’m 95 and am trying to get past the emotional maturity of a 14 year old.

Welcome to the mess.