Indie Author, Slytherin, wife, mama, and staunch supporter of the oxford comma.

I was the only daughter of a man of few words. He didn’t have much to say about
most things—but me? I had so much to say about everything.
Somehow, it was the perfect balance. He listened, and I talked. A lot.

At ten years old, I launched into a full explanation of why The Backstreet Boys
were obviously superior to NSYNC. He just smiled and showed me how to bait a
hook and cast a line. But the day he handed me a worn, well-loved paperback
copy of The Hobbit was the day he gave me something far bigger: a
glimpse into the magic my imagination could hold. (It also gave him the gift of
fishing in peace for a while.)

My childhood lives between the pages of some of the most extraordinary stories
I’ve ever read—some written in my lifetime, and others long before it.

As an adopted child, I often felt like a guest in my own story. But books? They
made me feel at home. I quickly learned the quiet superpower of always having
one with me: you can disappear into a story, even in a crowded room. It's a
trick I still try to use today—though my four kids make it a little harder!

For the past 16 years, I’ve been a stay-at-home mom. It’s been incredibly
rewarding—but also incredibly isolating at times. After my third baby, and my
third experience with postpartum depression, I joined a reader's group on
Facebook. And just like that ten-year-old girl again, I felt the world open
back up.

Reading is more than a hobby—it’s healing. It feeds the mind, yes, but also the heart.
Some of my closest friendships started with one simple question:

“Hey, whatcha reading?”