Life is a tapestry woven from countless moments—each thread representing a phase, a story, a lesson. It Takes As Long As It Takes is not just a tagline; it’s the recognition that every part of our journey, whether joyful or painful, is essential to the person we become.

In this photo gallery, I invite you to walk with me through the snapshots of my life: from the trauma of my early childhood to the resilience that emerged after facing cancer, from the tender moments of motherhood to the freedom of travel and exploration. Each image captures a moment, a role I’ve played, and a challenge I’ve overcome, but more than that, they show the beauty of growth and transformation.

As you reflect on your own life’s journey, I encourage you to think about your own chapters—the highs and lows, the times of loss and the moments of triumph. Together, let’s celebrate the richness of our stories, knowing that each phase, each experience, takes exactly as long as it’s meant to.

She had been running for so long, chasing fleeting moments that promised escape but delivered emptiness. Each thrill pulled her further from herself, spinning her into a chaos she couldn’t control. But one night, at the edge of it all, a quiet voice rose within her, urging her to stop and find her center. Like a dancer mid-pirouette, she fixed her focus on something steady—a glimmer of hope buried deep inside. In that stillness, she chose to face the pain she had been fleeing, stepping onto the path of healing and toward a life built on intention, not escape.

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.

Every night, I stood at the edge of the brown shag carpet, staring at the towering canopy bed, my heart racing as shadows twisted into shapes that seemed to come alive. I would take a deep breath and leap, certain the monsters hiding beneath would grab me if I didn’t.

But the jump wasn’t just about bedtime. My whole life felt like one long leap into the unknown—moving to Amarillo, starting a new school, living with Mama Jean and Daddy Bud. Everything was new, strange, and unsettling. The only constant through it all was the rhythmic clack of the typewriter, its steady sound grounding me when everything else felt uncertain.

The day Aunt Sue drove our U-Haul out of South Carolina is one I’ll never forget. As we pulled away from Daddy Number Two’s house, she glanced at me with a sly grin and said, “We gotta get you guys outta here. That man’s got eight wives locked in his basement.”

At the time, I didn’t know whether to laugh or be terrified. I took her words literally, filing them away with all the other odd, fragmented memories of my childhood. It wasn’t until I was in my 20s that I realized Aunt Sue’s stories were more than just jokes—they were her way of navigating a life full of hardships with humor as her armor.

Aunt Sue, the oldest of three siblings, had been through a lot. Life in the small town wasn’t always kind, and Granddaddy, with his tough love and hard lessons, was a man who could be as mean as a snake. Yet, Aunt Sue always faced life head-on, armed with a quick wit and a story for every occasion.

But even then, even as a little girl, I understood something deeper: we were running. Running toward something better, or at least something different. It wasn’t just a physical escape—it was a symbolic one.

In Amarillo, nothing felt familiar—not the suburban streets, not the orderly rows of houses, and certainly not the buildings stacked atop each other like bales of hay in the city’s heart. I had come from a place where life sprawled outward—fields stretching to the horizon, barefoot days spent chasing fireflies, and people who spoke in the rhythm of cicadas. Here, everything rose up, as if the world were trying to press me into the ground.

I didn’t fit. My clothes, my accent, even my wiry frame marked me as different. I was the redneck farm girl who didn’t understand why sidewalks replaced dirt paths or why the sky seemed smaller here. At night, the shadows cast by streetlights through the canopy bed’s frilly lace convinced me that monsters lay in wait. By day, those same monsters followed me into classrooms where my sharp mind didn’t help me make friends, only made me more of an outsider.

The typewriter became my sanctuary. Its keys were solid and predictable, a grounding rhythm I could control in a world that felt like a storm. When I pressed down, the letters landed on paper in neat, orderly lines, as if it were possible to make sense of things after all.

The clack of the keys became a comforting rhythm, a way to channel the restless energy of my young mind. Soon, the typewriter became my escape—a tool to make sense of the chaos swirling around me.