I’ve spent most of my life as a social worker, sitting beside people through the uncertain seasons of their lives. Sometimes that meant listening to what wasn’t said. Sometimes it meant simply being there, quietly. Over the years, I’ve come to believe that healing often occurs in silence—in the spaces between words, in the rhythm of daily rituals, in the small gestures that often go unnoticed.
Writing, for me, is an extension of that kind of presence. It’s how I reflect, how I rest. How I make meaning out of what lingers.
I write stories that live in the quiet corners of the day—on buses, in cafés, laundromats, and gyms—where strangers brush past each other, and something flickers in the pause. A shared glance. A hesitation. A word almost spoken. These moments may feel small, but to me, they reveal something deeply human.
Daydreaming, like writing, is necessary. It softens the hardness of the world. It reminds us to look again.
My recent focus is on writing meditative, sensory-rich fiction—stories that explore how we connect, how we miss each other, and how we carry those nearly invisible moments long after they pass. My work draws on my lifelong experience supporting others and my belief that vulnerability is not weakness, but a kind of light.
We don’t always say the most important things. But sometimes, they live on in how we almost did.