I've always been writing. I remember my first series when I was in kindergarten even had illustrations in vibrant marker (a story about a girl trying to escape zombies and vampires by running deeper and deeper through endless layers of her house while somehow still having the time to change into pretty dresses). 

Seriously writing, though, I started in the summer of 2019.  Inspired by what I couldn't get out of my mind, I put the thoughts to paper and from it was birthed a storyline that then erupted into over a hundred distinct project ideas over the past seven years.

Life for me was never the same after I found my passion for storytelling. With a vision so vivid it demanded every waking second's attention and hope so massive and heavy it could crush, I was charged.

Yet, it also fused with my idea of my identity too much, that without it, I didn't feel like I was enough. 

For a while, I longed to return to the three years I got to fully, obsessively write, mourning them because I thought they might have been the best of my life. 

Real life catches up to one.

I'm grateful to say that I now prioritize balance.