About Me

I grew up in San Diego with one brother and two sisters, which sounds wholesome until you learn I am the youngest by ten years. This meant I was essentially raised by adults who were already tired and mildly confused by my existence. I’ve been writing poetry since I was eight years old, which began during a period of melodramatic despair that felt extremely justified at the time. I would sit in my room listening to Evanescence on a boombox and writing poetry about how unfair life was, which both explains a lot and dates me aggressively.

I was not a well-liked child. I was painfully socially awkward and went through a middle school phase where I had braces, transition lenses, and absolutely no sense of style, so I wore sweatpants exclusively. I did not glow up. I hardened. Getting tough wasn’t a choice, it was a survival response.

I’ve been through a lot. I live with Bipolar I, PTSD, and the assorted companions that come with long-term trauma. I learned the hard way that if you ignore your mental health long enough, your nervous system may decide to file a formal complaint. Mine did. That’s how I became chronically ill and why the floor is now a recurring character in my life thanks to functional neurological disorder episodes. At some point, when everything gets so bad it feels fictional, you either laugh or fully lose it. I chose laughter. Is this my life, or am I trapped in a telenovela? Unclear. Either way, the drama is real.

After about fifteen years of therapy, countless hours researching psychology, and a lot of uncomfortable self-awareness, my writing changed. It got sharper, darker, more honest. During the pandemic, like many people, I picked up the healthy coping mechanism of dissociating into romance novels and simply never stopped. As someone with OCD, my life and hobbies are essentially one long obsession loop. When I care about something, I care about it with my whole chest. I am an A++ student when it comes to my fixations. Is it ideal? No. Is it drugs? Also no. So we take the win.

Over the years, I’ve also made the best friends a person could ask for. I may not be particularly trusting by nature, but I have full faith in the people who are in my life. They take me exactly as I am, no softening required, and I love them for exactly who they are, flaws and all. I owe every piece of success and survival to them. Without those people, I simply wouldn’t be here today.

I write because I want people to feel less alone in the parts of themselves they think are broken, shameful, or unlovable. I write about trauma, desire, mental illness, love, rage, humor, and the quiet violence of being human. If you’re here, chances are you know exactly what I mean.

Welcome to my page and welcome to my life. Let’s all take one big breath and remind ourselves we are badass, we are the best (or at least we aren’t the worst), and get ready to laugh, cry, and exist as the flawed, f*cked up versions of ourselves. Do me a favor while you’re here with me, shed that people-pleasing persona, and be 100% you, because I’d bet a good amount of money that who you actually are is way more interesting than the person you show your colleagues at the water cooler every day. That person sucks, don’t be them. Be you. Brilliant, hilarious, unhinged, and just a tad bit feral. Just like me.