Lost in Thought

That was reckless – 12/9


Ensnared – 12/8

Welcome to the new version of this post. I’ve decided to keep an ongoing, singular post so that my followers don’t get an update with every new entry.

Strange right? These days it matters to me. I recall and relish the days of anonymity; of being just an aspiring author with nothing to my name but hope and naivete. I was able to purge my thoughts into the abyss of the internet, unencumbered by any sort of responsibility.

And here I am, years older and very much bothered with a kind of censorship I have begun to loathe. I’ve been silent too long. Held back by my professional persona — you now, the career that actually pays. But there’s more to it.



Angst – Nov 12

Where to begin? I’ve been trying to start this new entry for what feels like an eternity. I’ve blitzed through chapter after chapter in the story of my life and with each subplot, I’ve only grown more fearful of my character’s development. It’s funny that I write it that way: Seeing myself like a character in a book. It offers me an emotional buffer. It’s telling, isn’t it? My emotional state is a war held in the middle of winter, atop a block of ice; racing to the center where my heart is supposed to be.

I’ve changed. I’m still trying to figure out what I’ve changed into. All I know is that I’m living off of small, everyday joys like my life depends on it. The days are both passing too quickly and agonizingly slow, and the duality I struggle with everyday is a plague on my conscience. I think about how tired I am–like I can sleep for an entire week. Then I think about how time is passing. Another day finished. Another day no more accomplished than the last. And in all this time, what have I achieved as a self-proclaimed writer?

I shouldn’t be too harsh. Just yesterday, I fanned the small embers of my pride re-reading the reviews on Amazon for my novels. I have indeed achieved…

It’s just that I want more. A natural human condition.

Even saying the words aloud, “I want to finish my trilogy. I want to go back to writing daily,” feels like a foreign thing in my mouth. There is no conviction because I’m only half-certain it’s true.

It feels like I’m forcing myself to want it. It’s been so much a part of my identity. Who am I without it? A silly girl who daydreams? No. I am a grown woman who lies. Because how can I be a writer if I do not write?

Resentment is a black rosebud unfurling inside of me. I feel like I’ve left something behind. I’m tethered, and distance gives me no reprieve. It’s only deepened my longing and damnit, why?

The title “has-been” feels like a vice grip around my lungs.

I know. I’m probably not making any sense. Is this what it means to be a tortured artist? It doesn’t sound very productive.

On the plus side, this is more words than I’ve written in months…on a public platform at least. My personal journal is rife with a lovely collection of darkly sweet words.

Pray for me. No wait. Just forgive me.


The Death of RomCom + Postpartum Update

Postpartum Update

She’s here! Our little angel arrived on February 2nd, twenty-four hours after my water broke. Looking back on those sleepless and anxious hours at the hospital, it all feels like it happened in the span of a breath. But of course, in those grueling moments, it was anything but.

Here we are, the three of us home and faring well. It seems all those baby books, online articles, and mommy blogs were worth their salt. It gave me the confidence I needed to care for her. Every day is different, some easier than others, but we’re managing better than expected. I’ve come to trust my body on a whole new level. This entire experience is like watching a miracle continuously unfolding. From my body to our newborn’s, every change is as if new parts of a sophisticated machine are awakening.

However, it all comes at a price. From lack of sleep to hormones, the flooding of emotions, and the destruction of your back–and maybe your sanity too. But I look at her and I see the pure manifestation of everything I dreamed and hoped for, and in those moments, a calm settles over me.

When she left my belly, something extraordinary and terrifying took her place. A feeling so profound it bears weight–a sharp blade made of protectiveness, ferocity, and fear, so strong it makes me tremble. I’m not one to entertain tragic what-if scenarios about the people I love: my parents, my siblings, my spouse, or my friends. But after having her, the fear of losing my baby exists alongside the unconditional love I have for her.

It’s a realization that I am not who I once was; that I am forever changed. And that I cannot live without her.

Have I mentioned how terrifying this is?

It’s OK. Breathe. Smile. RomCom’s Anyone?

At the second week of baby girl’s arrival, in between caring for her needs and managing housework, I’ve been in the mood for Romantic Comedies. My favorites are the ones set abroad in the beautiful landscapes of Greece, Italy, France, Spain, and Ireland. Something about these countries and their old-world romantic towns instantly inspires magic. I know what you’re thinking. These aren’t love stories…they’re fairytales. Stories that are often perceived as whimsical, silly, impossible, and unrealistic.


All I know is that they make me feel good. And I’m sure there are millions of fans who would agree with me.

I announce my sudden fervor to binge-watch RomCom’s and my husband gives me the typical male expression, telling me exactly how he (and the male species) feels about those kinds of movies.

What can I say? I’m filled with love and simply seek more of it. Perhaps the other half of the truth is that I’ve felt the icy caress of melancholy–so common during this period after childbirth. Captured in its embrace, it’s very difficult to surface from. And so, I strive to stay ahead of it. Eat well, sleep, smile, and laugh often. I’m trying not to ask too much of my body, even though, as I glance at my waist and no longer see the distinctive bump, I’m still unable to recognize myself. Not in this form. Heavy and sluggish, bearing half the strength I once had. I’m trying not to think too much about it. Not while everything is still so new and fresh.

My husband hates that every single one of these romantic movies involve some deadbeat that a girl is leaving for another man. My reply? Something along the lines of, “Well, I suppose there’s a lesson in there somewhere: Guys…don’t be a deadbeat or an asshole.”

Where have all the RomCom’s gone?

At this moment, I’m watching Letters to Juliet. Primarily set in Verona, Italy, and has the predictable RomCom plot. The only thing that truly differentiates these movies from one another are the faces, the locations, the starting and end point of the lovers (or singleton’s) story. It’s a beautiful, heartwarming movie. When I traveled to Italy several years ago, I longed to visit Verona. To glimpse Juliet’s castle and the famous wall where the love-stricken wrote their letters to Juliet.

Sadly, I was dissuaded by my (male) travel companion, and I’ve regretted it ever since.

If there’s any relationship advice I could offer, I’ll just say: adolescence is a short number of years, and if you’re with someone who has an interest/passion/hobby for which you might feel is childish, allow them a moment of indulgence. You should have your interests and they should have theirs. I think we’d be a little happier if we incorporate nearly as many hours into play as much as we do in work. It’s the best way to fight against the stress that plagues our generation.

“My husband believed that love is just hormones, but it’s more than that. Underneath it, [Lorenzo] was warm, kind, and so much more.” – Letters to Juliet

On my quest to create an exciting list of RC’s to binge-watch, I was disappointed to find Netflix and Amazon Prime lacking. Many of the old favorites weren’t freely available and there were no exciting new releases (save for Leap Year, and Bridget Jones’s Baby). It’s as if the film industry doesn’t believe in making good quality RC’s these days. And don’t get me started on the cringe-worthy Christmas specials. The category is desperately lacking new material.

Remember the decade before the Twilight craze, where Chick Lit and Chick Flicks flooded the shelves and theaters? I’d love to see it come back!

Welp…that’s all I’ve got. It seriously took me over five days to finish this post. >_< Exhaustion depleted me of both energy and creativity. I’m just thankful if half of this makes any sense to you.

Motherhood. Pray for me.


Also, please send me any recommendations on your favorite RomCom’s! xoxo

Self Worth & Personal Achievements + Pregnancy Update


Still pregnant. That’s the update.

Desperately trying to hang on until February 4th. I really want to give baby girl the chance to gain a little more weight before entering the world. It’s certainly translating on the scale as I grudgingly watch the numbers climb one pound after another. The Doctors keep telling me a lot of it is due to fluids, so I’m only crying on the inside…

But seriously, more than just gaining weight, why the obsession with Feb. 4th? Baby girl is due on Feb. 3rd so why is the day after so important?

The reason, very loosely, leads me to today’s topic: our fixation on time and personal achievements. In my early twenties (you’ll soon notice that I reference my twenties a lot because they were only 3+ years ago, and I did a crap-ton of growing up in the last decade), I had outlined my life and every prominent milestone. From completing a novel, to getting published, to knowing where I wanted to be in my professional career and financial goals, to building my family, and purchasing a home. I had it mapped out.

I know what you’re thinking. Control-freak? Yes. It quieted my anxiety and gave me peace of mind.

Then things got derailed.

I got engaged to my high school sweetheart in 2012 at the age of 27 just like I’d hoped. The timeline was panning out perfectly. Kids by 28-29, we already had a house, so that goal was checked off, the next step was to get published at 30.

Except, here’s the thing about well-crafted plans, sometimes it’s not on the same page as your heart. As the wedding planning ramped up, my heart spoke louder and louder.

Doubts stronger than anything I’d ever felt began to eat away at me. Staying on the path suddenly looked to be completely and utterly unfair for the both of us. Stripping away all the bullshit, it became clear how fiercely we’d insulated each other from the world. I looked around and realized we were on an island, and it had left us resentful, lonely, naive, and far from fulfilled.

There was more for us to experience before plunging into marriage. And when that time came, it wasn’t going to be with each other. In the end, the choice to go our separate ways came from a place of love and respect.

I’ve never spoken publicly about this experience because it’s no one else’s business. It’s a private, incredibly painful moment for two people and their families. But enough time has passed, we’ve all moved on. I believe it’s important to share because I’ve talked to a lot of women, and in hearing their struggles, I frequently saw a glimpse of my 27-year-old-self looking back at me.

We can be so obsessively fixed on pursuing the idealistic futures we’ve painted for ourselves–comparing and envying the lifestyle of others, in the hopes that our future is just as beautiful, even if some part of us knows it’s not what we really want. Sometimes we feel like we’ve come so far–that we’re in too deep–the idea of pivoting, slowing down, retracing our steps, or starting anew sounds impossible.

You might have kids, have a mortgage, debt, perhaps almost finished with your degree, or soaring in a career you’ve spent over a decade building. You dream of retiring at 40 or living that blissful 4-hour workweek. You want to have your masters or your Ph.D. by a certain age because you have other shit you’d like to get done soon after. Your family or that voice in your head tells you that you’re young, you have energy, enthusiasm, and the best time to do x,y,z is now!

But then halfway through, you realize that some of those ambitions were too aggressive. Or maybe they weren’t your dreams at all. Someone else impressed them upon you and at the time it sounded like a great plan. Maybe life happened: you got ill or someone you love does, and you can’t finish in the time you wanted. Perhaps you’re simply exhausted. Running on fumes. Tired of pushing yourself so hard, for so long only to see life passing you by. Instead of fulfillment, you’re lonely and depressed. You know this isn’t how it’s supposed to feel.

So what? You turn your back? Be the Anna in her 20’s and just walk?

No. Please don’t do that. Be smart about your choice, and deeply conscious of who it will impact. It would be incredibly short-sighted if you broke your promises on a whim. There are responsibilities that demand your continued commitment, and the other “goals” are no less important because they can still bring substance and meaning into your life–that is…if you still want them.

What you can relieve yourself of–as I have–is the fixation that your future achievements are on this predetermined timeline and that they can’t be altered, like stops on a bullet train to success. Undoubtably, the bigger the change, the more painful the transition. Nothing is going to spare you from the rough patch ahead, but at least you know, and can now focus on this new horizon.

One thing we all need to stop doing is comparing our lives to others. It’s hard, I know, to stop from seeing your peers with their picture-perfect lives, beautiful homes, grand vacations, accumulating cars and other stuff, and believing that their “accomplishments” mean that somehow you’re behind. You’re in your own lane in this marathon we call life.

Success is subjective

The train doesn’t have to have a new end-point. I chose to start over even though I had no idea how long it would take to recover. Hope and optimism is the bare minimum you can ask of yourself. All I had to cling to was the belief that someday I would be fine again. My train just took a fun detour through a dark tunnel.

Once I let go of my obsession in making something of myself by a certain age, I felt freer. Who says you can’t go back to those milestones? What’s another four or five years? Why is deviation so scary? Once those years pass, it will feel like a distant memory. Sure, you’ll probably wish you could have done x,y,z sooner but what’s the point?

They say life is short

But only if you’re letting it pass you by; only if you’re not spending enough time appreciating the moments. Barring health issues, you most certainly have time…enjoy it the way it makes sense for you. A friend once told me that after college, you still have at least forty years in the workforce. “Think about that,” he said. That’s plenty of time to have multiple careers where you could possibly have a decade or more of experience in each! You can apply the same thought in other areas of your life: marriage, kids, hobbies, business aspirations. Yes, some things are harder as you get older–some even physically impossible–but the point is that not everything has to be achieved in your twenties and thirties.

Take more time to focus on your health and again, stop comparing your life to others. It’s an exercise in masochism.

Everyone’s path is different for a reason. How else are we going to expand our awareness, build empathy, teach one other, and discover new ideas?

You’ll make mistakes. Everyone does. I’ve made plenty. I don’t say that with any ounce of pride but with reverence and humility. No single decision will define you as bold, strategic, lucky, successful or any of their respective antonyms. Those labels are an accumulation of your choices. Own your part and grow from there.

Okay. End rant. Now, where was I?

Ah yes, I’m praying that baby girl comes on Feb 4th. I’m still a planner. That hasn’t changed. I am, however, much more flexible than I was in the past. So if baby girl comes before or after that date then hooray! All I ask is that she’s healthy.

I want that date because of something way less sensible…


Two, four, and combinations of those two digits have been my lucky numbers since high school. And now that I’ve revealed this, excuse me while I go and change all my passwords…

As always, thank you for stopping by and catching a brief wave in the ocean that is my life. I’m so proud to have come this far. Still walking off some old injuries and finding myself dwelling on memories better left untouched, but it’s all good. Life is beautiful thanks to all the wonderful people in my tribe. Lotsa love,


This New Life

New blog photo 1.28.18.jpeg

Why the Hiatus?

I honestly can’t remember when I last wrote an entry. I initially pivoted from Blogger to WordPress in an attempt to provide more writer-focused content (also, oooh, isn’t WP just so much prettier?). But after no more than a few entries, the activity grew tedious and painful.

With side-hobbies like this, there will always exist some level of drab “work” but it should never outweigh the joy it’s meant to bring. The new direction had pushed the scale to become massively uneven and I quietly walked away.

So here’s to starting again: writing entries that I care about, without worrying whether people give a crap about what I have to say.

Ultimately, what brings you to this site is curiosity. Curiosity in what I might have to say,  what my life might entail, and the lessons I’ve learned, which you may or may not have any use for. But in the end, it’s for me. It always has been, even if I never admitted it. I write these entries because they’re good practice. They require purpose and a structure: a beginning, middle, and end. Such as any story. But I also write them because they’re an emotional release. They’re well-thought-out carefully crafted personal reflections that distract me from idleness. A writer’s mind can be a scary place. Without the ability to daydream to the point of obsession, I don’t know if I could’ve written all those long ass novels. Idleness for a mind like mine is its own kind of purgatory.

So this is where I begin. I’m enjoying the first few days of Maternity Leave. I’ve promised not to think about my job and simply focus on this new life. I’m one week (give or take a day) from my due date. We’re having a baby girl, whose features for the past nine months, I’ve struggled to picture. I feel her rolling and stretching inside of me and yet the vision of her in my arms still feels impossible and unreal. I haven’t met her yet and already, I love her.

Saying those words brings a sharp sting to my eyes. The kind filled with happiness, because how beautiful is that? Like the stories I’ve written, she’ll always be a part of me. But she’ll be she so much more. I’ve created many things in my life but never a life with a soul.

I’ve prepared as much as I could in anticipation of her arrival, but I know it will never be enough. She will likely teach me more than I could ever teach myself.

Balancing writing while being pregnant…

Challenging is putting it mildly. With the new role at work and all the fun symptoms of pregnancy, my discipline suffered these past several months. Despite what I said earlier, being a skilled obsessive daydreamer is not enough to produce a well-written story. Oh the many novels, I might’ve written…

You need discipline, time, and mental sharpness.

Unfortunately, pregnancy-brain is legit. And so is the fatigue. Along with the numerous ailments that come with the transformation required to incubate a growing human. My coping strategy after a long day of work was to endlessly daydream, which as noted above, absent of any followup, created nothing. I was trapped in my own head without an escape.

So I occupied myself in other ways. I focused on growing my author Instagram, which led to an increase in the discovery and sales of my books. Hooray! I joined a new writers group, became BFF’s with my library card, and prepared our home for the new baby.

Remembering my Promise

Despite the lack of traction in writing my next short story and novel, the promise I made to myself a long time ago remains unwavering: I would fulfill three purposes before I died (sort of grim to think about right now, I know). It’s mostly one true purpose, but each of the three is a significant milestone worthy of its own spotlight. I aim to write and finish the stories that have haunted me since my early twenties. They’re exclusive from other personal goals, like being a good mom, being a good friend, and living an honest life, etc. I still believe that everything in my life happened as it should so that I could be the writer I was meant to be.

There have been many late nights where I laughed at how naive and foolish these thoughts of grandeur were. As if I was meant to be someone remarkable in this world. But these promises aren’t meant to be grand. All they are is a needle pointing North. Being a writer is the identity that kept me from going astray, from wandering aimlessly; anxious about who I was supposed to be, and asking unanswerable questions that kept drowning me in melancholy. Before then, I tried to enjoy the escapism of youth and a kind of YOLO lifestyle only to be met with disappointment. The choices I made always took more than they gave. It’s a philosophy that quickly compounded in a tally of regrets, adding up in a ledger I couldn’t burn and forget.

That’s when I learned that both aimlessness and idleness were dangerous to me. Identifying and solidifying three simple purposes is what gave me focus.

But these promises require an investment in time, and it’s a fast disappearing currency in my household. That’s ok. I have faith. And soon, I’ll have someone looking up to me, who expects me to make a good example–as someone who keeps her promises.

Thank you so much for stopping by. I honestly don’t normally write in such somber tones. I do hope that you picked up on the range of emotions and mind-space that I’ve been experiencing as I enter this exciting and unknown doorway into a new world.

For me, life and writing are interchangeable. As such, I’ll be writing more…about life. Feel free to stop by anytime you want to see how things are going, and what I’m ruminating on these days.

Much love,