Dear Reader, Writing has always been my way of saying,  I was here. This mattered. When life fractures us, language becomes a bridge between what we feel and what we can survive. Poetry, especially, allows room for truth without explanation—it lets us speak without apology. Lately, I’ve found myself leaning into that more than ever. I am metabolizing grief and transmuting it into art—poems, songs, fragments of feeling that don’t always make sense until they land on the page.

Spring always feels like a quiet invitation—to begin again, to soften, to step forward in ways we may have been holding back from all winter. As the days stretch a little longer and the light lingers just a bit more, I find myself reflecting on both where I’ve been and where I’m going. My music playlist has been steeped in melancholy these days. I’m going through a tough time and feel like I’m back in the liminal space . Back at book # 1! I can remember a little over a year

Many of you may know Brené Brown from her TED Talks and books—especially her work around courage and vulnerability. She teaches that it takes immense courage to be vulnerable, to love, to risk being seen. And she’s right. But when I fall in love, I don’t usually think, How courageous of me. I don’t think, What a risk this is. I think, This will be worth it. Because when I’m with the right person, love doesn’t feel like a brave performance. It feels like relief. Like exhaling.

Dear Reader,   I recently learned that I have an eye condition, and my brother has another—both hereditary, both completely unexpected. As we age, it’s often not a matter of if but when something new will surface that asks us to dig deep, find strength we didn’t know we had, and keep pressing forward.   I don’t know a single person who isn’t carrying at least a handful of challenges, personally or professionally. And the world we’re navigating right now seems determined to