The garage was her stage, a haven carved from cement and clutter where she danced beneath the shifting light of a setting sun. With a headset snug over her ears—a Christmas gift from Grandmother—she spun through her own world, escaping the cries of a newborn brother and the ache of feeling out of place in her mother’s new family. Each plié was a whispered plea, each leap a shout into the void: Notice me. I’m still here. In this space, surrounded by tools and flickering reflections, she found solace and strength, one step at a time.

The typewriter was more than just a machine; it was a sanctuary. In the chaos of my childhood, it was the one constant, the one thing that allowed me to express the turmoil inside. The rhythmic clack of the keys was my only form of self-expression, and it became my lifeline. The act of writing grounded me, gave me purpose, and helped me heal. Writing wasn’t just a pastime—it was my way of survival, my way of making sense of the world. Even now, as technology changes, that sound, that rhythm, is still a part of me.

Writing has been my lifeline, a way to heal, explore, and connect, from a teenager navigating trauma to a mother chronicling fleeting family moments. It is my anchor in grief, my celebration of joy, and my bridge to future generations. Writing is not just what I do; it is who I am.