Why I Write 

Some conversations stay with you long after the microphones are switched off.

Speaking about my life on the Suicide Sucks podcast was one of those moments not because it was dramatic, but because it asked me to put language to experiences I had spent years avoiding. It required clarity, honesty, and a kind of steadiness I had never needed to show publicly before. In doing that, it also reminded me why I write at all.

Before I ever published a poem, I spent years navigating addiction, isolation, and periods of self‑harm. I used alcohol to manage emotions I didn’t yet understand, and I withdrew from people because silence felt safer than trying to explain what I couldn’t articulate. Therapy didn’t help at first; I wasn’t ready to let anyone close enough to make a difference. Much of my life was spent trying to outrun myself, and failing quietly.

Writing became the one place where I could be honest.

It offered structure when everything else felt chaotic. It gave shape to feelings I didn’t have the vocabulary for. It allowed me to speak without being interrupted, judged, or misunderstood. Poetry didn’t arrive as a solution or a sudden turning point it arrived as a small, steadying force. A place to put the weight when I couldn’t carry it alone. A way to stay connected to something when I felt disconnected from everything.

My work is rooted in that history.

I write about the quieter, more complicated sides of survival: the days that don’t look like progress, the moments that feel uncertain, the slow, unglamorous work of rebuilding a life from the inside out. I’m not interested in presenting a polished narrative of recovery or a neatly resolved story. I’m interested in telling the truth the kind of truth that often goes unspoken because it feels too ordinary, too messy, or too human.

I write for the people who live with their struggles quietly, who feel unseen, or who are still trying to understand themselves. I write for those who carry their history in silence because they don’t know where to put it. If my work offers recognition, steadiness, or a sense of connection to someone who needs it, then it has done what I hoped it would.

This is the foundation of my writing.

This is where the poems begin in the spaces between what is said and what is held, in the long work of learning to speak honestly, and in the belief that even the quietest stories deserve to be heard.