Over the years, I’ve been called brave more times than I can count. Most people point to things like my pilgrimage across Spain, moving to China, or traveling the world solo. I’ve even been featured on podcasts and invited to speak—sharing those parts of my story with friends, community groups, anyone who wanted to hear the bright, the brave. But those choices just required forward motion: buying a ticket, packing a bag, getting on a plane.
Bravery is stepping into battle when you’re not sure you’ll win. It’s deciding to do something that scares you, even though you’re terrified. But courage… courage is being vulnerable. It’s removing the armor you’ve worn your whole life and stepping into the light. It’s setting that armor aside so anyone—and everyone—can see you. And judge you. Decide your worth.
Writing my memoir didn’t take bravery. It took courage.
This memoir is me exposing my deepest thoughts and feelings to the world. I don’t do it lightly. I spent my life hiding, protecting the secrets I carried so no one else would get hurt. Protecting others, when no one was protecting me. I let those secrets shrink me, made myself less important than the people I protected. But one day, I realized—I am not less than. One day, I saw what I was doing to myself and decided I deserved the same light I had given to others through my armor, through my protection. And I sat down to write.
Writing has always been an outlet for me. Years ago, I did a book study of The Artist’s Way and wrote every day for a year. I recommend it to anyone who’s healing or feeling blocked. In that year, I discovered I needed to write a full page of “nothing” before anything meaningful could emerge. Only after writing that first page would the truth begin to rise—questions about life, family, pain, healing. My mind needed silence, room to breathe, before it could speak.
My memoir, this story of my life, is the result of years of unfinished half-pages in dusty journals. It’s what finally came when I pushed past that first page and realized I couldn’t stop. The writing came in hours—and do I mean hours—late into the night, sometimes until 2 a.m., and in every free moment of my day. The words rushed through my fingers. It took a grand total of 18 days to write—start to finish.
When I decided I was important, the words agreed. They poured out of me, a tidal wave of thoughts and truth I couldn’t stop, even if I wanted to.
In 2015, when I chose to walk the Camino de Santiago, it quickly became less of a choice and more of a calling. It was something I had to do, an ache under my skin, a need I couldn’t ignore. Sitting down to write this memoir felt exactly the same. It wasn’t just desire. It was need. It was finally time to set aside the armor. Time for my voice to be heard.
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