Terrified? Same. But I’m doing it anyway.

Meth labs, police raids, and breaking generational cycles—my memoir launches in just 3 days

On Thursday, my memoir will be out in the world. And honestly? I never knew if I’d get to say that.

Five years of rejection from literary agents nearly broke me. I pitched indie presses, but those doors stayed shut. Self-publishing on Amazon felt soulless—like shouting into the void. And at some point, I started wondering if maybe the world was trying to tell me something. Maybe the book just wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough.

I wanted to believe in my story, but traditional publishing had a way of making me feel small, like I needed permission to exist. And yet, here I was, unable to let it go.

Because this book wasn’t just about me. It was about who might need it. I wanted to reach the people who might see themselves in my words, in my childhood, in the screaming ache of trying to love someone lost to addiction. Who might feel less alone because I told the truth. Who might find even a flicker of hope.

And then, I found my answer. The community I was searching for was right here all along.

The people on Substack. You.

Since announcing this memoir almost a month ago, I’ve received an outpouring of support that has left me in tears. People reaching out with their own stories of addiction, survival, complicated love—their own hard-won truths. Words of encouragement. Words of solidarity. And they haven’t even read a single line yet. That’s the gift of this space—the trust, the belief, the community.

I realized it was never about how I published. It was about who I was writing for.

This memoir is for the ones who lost their childhood too soon—or never had one to lose. For the ones trying to navigate the wreckage of loving someone who battles addiction. For those still learning how to hold love for the people who hurt them, or who had to let go completely to save themselves. For the ones breaking cycles for themselves and their children. For those sitting with their hard emotions, wrestling with the weight of what shaped them but refusing to let it define them. For those choosing, every day, not to give up on themselves.

It’s for every single person who stopped scrolling for even a moment because something in their gut whispered, I know this feeling. I recognize this longing. I see myself in this story.

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And beyond that, my sharing this book is already inspiring others to share their own stories. I’ve gotten countless messages from people saying they’re finally going to start writing, finally going to publish, finally going to let their words out into the world. And that? That’s a dream I didn’t even know I had—to remind people that their stories matter. That they matter.

Writing is one of the most powerful creative acts we have—it’s raw, transformative, and available to all of us. I love showing people what it can do. How it can shift a life, heal even the deepest wounds, and lead us back to ourselves—the selves we were before the trauma, before the world tried to strip us of who we truly are.

But I have to be honest—after all this, for the first time, I’m terrified to put this story out there.

I’ve never struggled with sharing my truth before. I write like I’m tossing words into a black hole as if no one will ever read them. And then, I hit publish. It’s never been hard for me. Until now.

Now, there’s expectation. Now, people are waiting. Now, my inner critic has shown up with a megaphone:

What if it’s not good? This is your first book, after all. Let’s be honest—you had no idea what you were doing then, and you still don’t. Don’t you think there was a reason it was rejected so many times? You made it too quiet. Too full of love and longing when people wanted tension, blame, something sharper. I warned you. You’re a hack. Why don’t you ever listen?

Imposter syndrome is a sneaky thing. It doesn’t show up when you’re quietly working in the background. It shows up when you step forward, when people start paying attention. It whispers, Who do you think you are?

And yet, here’s what I know:

We tell ourselves our stories aren’t worth telling. That no one will care. That they’ll judge us, or worse—no one will read them at all.

But vulnerability is the whole point. We stumble. We wrestle with shame. But we write through it. Not because we have perfect answers, but because writing itself connects us. It allows us to bear witness to our own lives. And if we’re lucky, we tap into something deeper—we grow, we release, we set ourselves free.

If you’re waiting for fear to quiet before you start telling your story… I hate to break it to you, but that roar? It might always be there, rumbling beneath the surface. It hasn’t left me. But write anyway. Share anyway. Do it for yourself first—but also because you never know who might see themselves in your words, who might feel less alone because you dared to tell the truth.

Don’t let anyone make you feel like your story isn’t enough.

Not even you.

I almost did. I almost let rejection convince me my story didn’t matter. But in three days, I’ll be standing on the other side of fear—heart pounding, hands shaking, the roar still echoing, but moving forward anyway.

The One Who Leaves begins serialization on March 6, and I’d love for you to read along.

The full memoir will be for paid subscribers ($5/month or $20/year), but I never want cost to be a barrier so I’m giving away a handful of free subscriptions—just send me a message. I got you.

This book is for you if you’ve ever fought like hell for the people you love and lost yourself in the process. It’s a story of survival and reckoning, love and loss—the fight to untangle ourselves from the past while still longing for belonging.

And maybe that’s why we’re drawn to certain stories—the ones that crack us open, that reflect back the parts of ourselves we’ve struggled to name. The ones that remind us we’re not alone.

For fans of:

• The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls

• White Oleander by Janet Fitch

• Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver

• Educated by Tara Westover

• Somebody’s Daughter by Ashley C. Ford

If these stories spoke to you, The One Who Leaves just might, too.