It all started during a time I didn’t want to keep going. There was a season when survival felt like a full-time job. Finances unraveled. Reputation took hits. My body carried more stress than it was built for. Most nights, I prayed for relief. Most mornings, I woke up anyway. At some point, I realized the fact that I kept waking up wasn’t cruelty, it was instruction from a higher power, a calling. If I was still here, maybe there was something to build from the wreckage. I started writing. Not because I had answers, but because I needed to make sense of the chaos. Some chapters read like resilience. Others read like delusion. The through line? I was still standing. In my loneliest era, podcast people became my imaginary friends. I’d whisper “me too” into empty rooms, realizing I wasn’t as singular in my struggle as I thought. And then it hit me: if so much was given, maybe something was expected. So here I am. Sharing the grief, the absurdity, the reinventions, the legal storms, the motherhood, the health woes the jobs that read like a casting call...and yes, the humor that somehow survived it all.

Not for shock value. Not for pity. But for connection. In a world of curated feeds and filtered resilience, I’m more interested in the outtakes. I’m not suggesting we burn our makeup bags (bras are still under review), but maybe we stop pretending the hard parts don’t exist.

If my story does anything, I hope it makes you feel less alone — and maybe laugh at something you once thought would take you out.

It all started when I wanted to STOP. I couldn't bare it anymore.