I never planned to become an author. In 2021, I broke my back. Overnight, I was forced to step away from a career in healthcare that had shaped my identity for years, leaving my life didn’t just take my job, it took the version of myself I knew how to be. What followed was anxiety, depression, and relentless insomnia. My body became foreign, pulling self-destructive urges without my permission, and I didn’t yet have language for what was happening.

So I started writing. Not novels. Survival notes. I began stream journaling and brain dumping to make sense of what my mind was doing when I lost control of it. Those fragments became patterns. Patterns became stories. I learned about hope, structure, and meaning. The worlds I write didn’t come from outlines or plans. They came from the quiet hours where sleep failed and the truth surfaced instead.