It passed
once,
then again,
quick enough
to evade
explanation,
slow enough
to smudge
a ghost
of curiosity
behind it,
the way
a thought
trails
after the sentence
ends.

I followed
before my focus
changed,
the way I always did,
before asking
what it would cost,
before intention
assembled its reasons,
drawn
toward a narrow opening
in the day,
the hour
had not yet
claimed it,
still trembling.

The ground gave,
softened
beneath my step,
the quiet betrayal
of something
that had held
until now.
Balance
broke
without a word
of warning.
My body
bowed
forward
into space,
mind
moved ahead,
mapping for meaning,
while sensation
trailed
like loose pages,
spilled
from a story
I forgot
I was telling,
one I started
long before
I had words—
ink
still drying
on the corners.

Down the rabbit hole
of self-doubt
I tumble,
a well-worn path
my feet
recognize first.
Air
pressing low,
a blanket
soaked
in silence,
smelling faintly
of dust
and old decisions,
the kind
made for me,
clinging
like it feared
being
left behind.

As the walls
curve inward,
narrowing choice
into inevitability,
a single,
soundless shaft
stretches
beyond depth,
like a thought
that refuses
to end,
its mouth
open,
swallowing
everything
I had not
named,
pulling me
deeper
than distance
dares
to measure.

The descent
draws out.
Time
trembles,
the way it did
in rooms
where clocks
were irrelevant
to power,
losing
its old grip,
its fingers
slipping—

click
slip
click

knuckles
whitening
as it
falls
from the ledge
of the moment.

Thought
multiplies
faster
than breath,
a defense
mistaken
for intelligence,
each idea
interrupting
the last
before it
can settle.

The walls
slide past
in a continuous
arc,
gliding
with a sound
like silk
against stone.
Smooth.
Unmarked.
Too distant
to grasp
as if memory
was re-looping
itself
into silence.

An old film
whirring,
flickering
with no sound
leaving me
suspended,
as if motion
itself
had made
a cradle,
rocking me
the way falling
always had,
held
between where
I stood
and wherever
this spiral’s
leading.

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You’re reading an excerpt from Rule 42, an upcoming book of long-form poetry that uses Alice in Wonderland as psychological metaphor. Growth, shrinking, trials, and absurd authority mirror the internal systems we learn to obey long after they stop serving us.

I’m sharing the book one act at a time, weekly, as it takes its final shape. If you want to follow the full arc as it comes to life, subscribe to Healing Thoughts. Follow the descent as it comes to life. Miss a week, and you miss a layer.

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Read more

The air
felt settled,
already decided,
dust drifting,
descending down,
doomed
to fall,
as if everything
that could be said
about the moment
had been said
earlier,
explained
in advance,
labeled
and logged,
then tucked away
by drawers
that turned their backs
to me.

Praise passed
like a pre-recorded message—
a practiced refrain,
familiar
and fixed,
received
without resistance,
without uptake.
Absorbed
like rain
into dry sand,
without
a visible scar.
I understood
the words.
They didn’t nourish
anything
that still needed me.

Time marched
in uniform,
eyes forward
boots ticking
out the hours.
Each task
a faceless soldier
already assigned
queuing
in quiet obedience,
asking
only to be completed
and placed
like petals
on a grave,
no one visited
lost in the done pile.

I stayed
locked in
through it all.
Attention
anchored.
Posture
poised.
Learned early.
Aware
of a slow,
insistent sense
that my effort
was circling
with no runway ready,
no light
laid for landing.

I sat
beside the day
as it walked
on
without me,
never turning
its head,
words passing,
explanations
repeating,
my attention
held in place
by the sense
that something essential
had been
skipped.

That was when
I noticed
the walls.

They had been forming
for some time,
vines veiled
like veins
behind vintage wallpaper,
stretching
into a long,
low-lit hallway,
frames appearing
one by one,
Polaroids
pinned
to the spine
of the hallway
I had finished,
then
abandoned.

I’ve curated
a gallery
of could-have-beens
and what-ifs,
a mural
of muted memories
that stared
blankly back
from polite intervals,
deemed
too small,
too insignificant
to count.

I wander
these halls
like Alice—
lucid,
and unsponsored,
awake
and paying attention,
mentally
malnourished,
and stomach
starved,
listening
closely.

Footsteps
following
tap.
Tap.
Tap.
TAP.

While the surface
stays sealed
and smooth,
waiting
for something
anything
to shatter
the settled silence
of the day
and send
the surface
spinning.

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You’re reading an excerpt from Rule 42, an upcoming book of long-form narrative poetry that uses Alice in Wonderland as psychological metaphor. Growth, shrinking, trials, and absurd authority mirror the internal systems we learn to obey long after they stop serving us.

I’m sharing the book one act at a time, weekly, as it takes its final shape. If you want to follow the full arc as it comes to life, subscribe to Healing Thoughts. Follow the descent as it comes to life, one week at a time. Miss a week, and you miss a layer.

Subscribe now

Read more

Healing Thoughts II is live.
The book that nearly broke me to write is finally yours to hold.

It’s for the sleepless nights.
The mornings you drag yourself out of bed.
The days you need one line that reminds you you’re still in the fight.

“You were never too broken to belong to yourself again.”

This is the book you’ve been waiting for.

Grab your copy now.
Read it today.
Underline it tonight.
Share it tomorrow.

Grab Your Copy Now

Tomorrow this book is no longer mine. It’s yours.

I’ve carried these pages through sleepless nights, coffee-stained mornings, and moments that nearly broke me.
Tomorrow, you get to carry them.

You get to underline the lines that hurt in the best way.
You get to dog-ear the pages that feel like medicine.
You get to keep this book close for the nights when you can’t keep yourself together.

One more day.
Then it’s in your hands.

Healing Thoughts II launches tomorrow.
Be ready.

Grab Your Copy Now

I left fingerprints in the margins,
coffee stains where the weight of my head pressed too long.

There were nights I tore out sentences
just to stop them from staring back.

What survived still carries the silence of those rooms.
It carries the pulse I couldn’t steady.

If you open it,
don’t expect clean pages.

Expect fragments.
Expect me,
unfinished.

Every word you underline belongs less to me and more to the part of you that recognized it. That’s the secret life of books. The meaning is carried in the person who stops breathing for a second because something landed exactly where it needed to.

We live inside constant noise, yet the lines we hold onto are always the quiet ones. The sentence that feels like it was written only for you is the moment your own memory surfaces. That’s how ownership of meaning works. The writer begins the shape. The reader fills it with lived detail.

Healing often happens this way. Not as instruction, but as recognition. Not through someone telling you how to change, but by someone saying something that makes you realize you’ve been holding the answer the whole time. The words were never mine. They were always waiting for you.

Before you move on, consider this:

What lines—written, spoken, or remembered—have you carried as if they were your own?

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Scraps + Bandaids:

🕊 New messages drop most weekdays. Quiet, but not gentle.
🔥 Paid subscribers keep the wounds lit long enough to be named.
📚 When the pain overflows, it becomes a book.
🧢 Healing wears well when stitched into something real.
☕ This newsletter runs on coffee and confession.
🖤 Shadow Thoughts carries the pieces too jagged for here.

This chapter hurt to write because it made me see how many hours I’ve lost replaying the past, wishing for a do-over instead of living the day I had.

I don’t want you to lose that time.
So I’m giving you this chapter early. Before the book even comes out.

Healing Thoughts Ii Sample Chapter 2

533KB ∙ PDF file

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If you’ve been haunted by what-ifs, this book is a way to put the ghost to rest.

Healing Thoughts II launches Oct. 1, 2025.
One page at a time, one choice at a time, you get to start again.

Be the First to Get It

Scraps + Band-aids:

🕊 New messages drop most weekdays. Quiet, but not gentle.
🔥 Paid subscribers keep the wounds lit long enough to be named.
📚 When the pain overflows, it becomes a book.
🧢 Healing wears well when stitched into something real.
☕ This newsletter runs on coffee and confession.
🖤 Shadow Thoughts carries the pieces too jagged for here.

Subscribe now

I used to think my worth lived in other people’s approval.
So I said yes when I meant no.
I smiled when I wanted to scream.
I stayed quiet so I wouldn’t lose anyone.

But you know what it cost?
Me.

Writing this chapter was like pulling out a splinter that had been under my skin for years. It reminded me that being “easy to love” isn’t worth it if I have to disappear to stay that way.

“You don’t owe them your ruin.” (chapter 11)

This chapter still stings when I read it. But it also sets me free every time.

I want you to read it early.

Download Chapter 11 (Free)

I’ve turned this chapter into a PDF you can save, print, and underline.
It’s yours. No waitlist. No preorder required.

Healing Thoughts Ii Sample Chapter

510KB ∙ PDF file

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If you’ve been saying yes until there’s nothing left of you, this book might hurt a little. But in the best way.

Healing Thoughts II launches Oct. 1, 2025.
Preorder now and save a page for the first time you finally say no.

Preorder Your Copy Today

Scraps + Band-aids:

🕊 New messages drop most weekdays. Quiet, but not gentle.
🔥 Paid subscribers keep the wounds lit long enough to be named.
📚 When the pain overflows, it becomes a book.
🧢 Healing wears well when stitched into something real.
☕ This newsletter runs on coffee and confession.
🖤 Shadow Thoughts carries the pieces too jagged for here.

Subscribe now

After the first book came out, I stopped.
Stopped posting.
Stopped writing.
Told myself it was rest.
It wasn’t.

The quiet turned into something darker.
I could feel the old patterns crawling back.
So I did the only thing that has ever kept me standing.
I wrote my way out.
One page at a time.

Some pages felt like they were holding me together.

Here’s one of them:

The Ocean Between Our Mouths

Once,
our feet shared the same sand.
We spoke in salt-sweet breaths,
close enough to taste the air
between our words.

Now,
an ocean lives where our voices used to meet.
Not water,
but every word I swallowed,
every truth you let slip beneath the tide.

It rises between us,
wave upon wave
of what we never said.

I see you
on that far-off shore,
a figure blurred by distance,
your mouth a question I no longer hear.

My throat aches
with all the bridges I never built.

Below, the water is heavy.
Currents pull at my ankles,
regrets,
assumptions,
fears too jagged to name.

Old shipwrecks of honesty
rot quietly in the dark,
their broken ribs tangled in seaweed,
their cargo lost.

And still,
I stand here,
letting the tide carry my voice away,
again, and again,
as if the waves could speak for me,
as if the silence will save us
from drowning.

I wonder:
If I shouted now,
would the ocean hush long enough
for you to hear?
Or would it swallow my voice whole,
like it has every time before?

I wonder:
Is my silence a bridge,
or the sea that drowns what might have been?

This is what Healing Thoughts II is made of.
Raw nights turned into words you can hold.

You don’t need to read it cover to cover.
Pick it up.
Open it anywhere.
Let one page steady you when everything tilts.

Reserve Your Copy →

Healing Thoughts II launches Oct. 1, 2025.
Get the book that came from the hardest season of my life.

Scraps + Band-aids:

🕊 New messages drop most weekdays. Quiet, but not gentle.
🔥 Paid subscribers keep the wounds lit long enough to be named.
📚 When the pain overflows, it becomes a book.
🧢 Healing wears well when stitched into something real.
☕ This newsletter runs on coffee and confession.
🖤 Shadow Thoughts carries the pieces too jagged for here.

Reserve Your Copy Now

After Healing Thoughts came out, I was empty.
I stopped writing. I stopped showing up.
I told myself it was rest, but really, I was disappearing.

Silence can feel safe, but it can also swallow you whole.
I had to build my way back before I stayed gone for good.

Today’s Tool: The 3-Step Way Back

Here’s the practice that got me moving again when I felt stuck.
Do this tonight. It takes ten minutes.

Step 1: Name the Block
Write this question at the top of the page:
What part of me am I avoiding right now?

Then answer it fast. Don’t censor it. Don’t overthink it.

Step 2: Sit With the Answer
When the words hit something real, you’ll feel it in your chest.
Instead of running, pause for 60 seconds.
Breathe. Let the discomfort stay.

Step 3: Turn It Into a Next Step
Write one small thing you can do to face what came up.
Not fix it. Just face it.
Example:

• Text someone I trust.

• Go for a five-minute walk.

• Write one more paragraph tomorrow.

This is the framework that pulled me out, one night at a time.
Some nights it felt useless.
But by the end of the week, I noticed I wasn’t disappearing anymore.

Why It Matters

This is how Healing Thoughts II was written.
Not in a rush of inspiration, but through hundreds of small choices to keep going.

It launches October 1st.
If you need a way back to yourself, this is where to start.

Reserve Your Copy Now

Scraps + Bandaids:

🕊 New messages drop most weekdays—quiet, but not gentle.
🔥 Paid subscribers keep the wounds lit long enough to be named.
📚 When the pain overflows, it becomes a book.
🧢 Healing wears well when stitched into something real.
☕ This newsletter runs on coffee and confession.
🖤 Shadow Thoughts carries the pieces too jagged for here.

Inside waits a soft place to set down what you’ve held too tight for too long.
33 truths you bookmarked when your chest forgot how to breathe.
33 poems that bend in your hands. Different at dawn, heavier at midnight.
33 quiet prompts to tug at the locked doors you guard with polite nods and busy days.

Hold it slow.
Leave it by your bed so your secrets have somewhere to go when sleep won’t come.
Carry it in your bag for train rides, lunch breaks, stolen moments behind closed doors
when the world asks too much and you forget your own name for a minute.
Let it gather stains, bent corners, margin scribbles,
proof that you stayed soft when the day asked you to be steel.

Grab Your Copy Now

Presale is open,
which means these pages are one step closer to your nightstand,
your coffee table, the space beside your mug you keep filling to keep your hands busy.

Thank you for wanting words that don’t fix you,
only sit close enough that you don’t feel so alone with the mess.
Thank you for being someone who knows gentle things are worth protecting.

Reserve your copy.
Let it wait for you.
Let it remind you,
not every hidden thing needs to stay hidden.

✨📖 [Preorder Here]

Stay soft.
Stay true.
Stay.

Scraps + Bandaids:

🕊 New messages drop most weekdays—quiet, but not gentle.
🔥 Paid subscribers keep the wounds lit long enough to be named.
📚 When the pain overflows, it becomes a book.
🧢 Healing wears well when stitched into something real.
☕ This newsletter runs on coffee and confession.
🖤 Shadow Thoughts carries the pieces too jagged for here.