I didn’t set out to write a book. I set out to remember who I was before life got too loud.
There was a time I wrote often—letters I never sent, poems I didn’t show, journal entries I buried in drawers. But somewhere between growing up and showing up—at work, in life, in roles I didn’t always choose—writing became a luxury I could no longer afford. My words, once so eager to meet me on paper, slowly grew quiet under the weight of deadlines, dishes, duties.
It was only years later, when the...