Eight years ago, I sat down to write-not with a plan, not with an audience in mind, but with a heart full of memories and a need to make sense of them. My story had lived quietly inside me for years, tucked away in the shadows of trauma and survival. Writing became a private act of reclamation, a way to give shape to experiences I had long kept hidden. At the time, I didn’t know I was writing a memoir. I was simply writing to organize my thoughts and clear my head.
For seven years, I wrote in solitude. The manuscript that emerged was raw and sprawling. It was a blend of documentary-style narrative, personal analysis, and descriptions of treatment modalities. It held truth, but it lacked cohesion. Something was missing, and I knew it. That’s when I reached out to Alyssa Berthiaume, professional book coach, and everything began to shift.
Working with a coach taught me the craft of storytelling. I learned how to write scenes that pulled readers in, how to develop characters (including myself) with nuance, and how to use dialogue to bring moments to life. The manuscript began to transform—not just structurally, but emotionally. Through this process, I discovered my audience: people living with PTSD, anxiety, and depression. People who feel invisible. People who need to know they are not alone.
My goals became clear. I wanted to offer hope. I wanted to increase awareness of PTSD and its long-term impact. I wanted to show that recovery is possible, and it was not linear, not easy, but possible.
Now, the book is finished. It’s ready to be released into the world. And while that brings excitement, it also brings a strange sense of loss. I miss the writing process, the quiet hours of reflection, the catharsis of putting words to pain, the slow unfolding of insight. There’s also apprehension. For so long, my story was a secret. Sharing it feels like stepping into the light after years in the dark.
I’m not worried about how strangers will react. But I do wonder how those who know me will respond. They may realize they never truly knew me. It’s a vulnerable place to stand, but it’s also a powerful one.
There’s more to say. Not everything made it into the memoir, and that’s intentional. I’m already envisioning a second book, a self-help resource for those navigating PTSD, anxiety, and depression. Something practical, compassionate, and grounded in lived experience. Continue to follow me or join my mailing list for more information as to when this book will be out. In the meantime, grab your copy of my memoir.
This memoir is not just a book. It’s a bridge—from isolation to connection, from silence to voice. And while the writing may be done, the story continues.