New Beginnings


Me at Boston Commons caught with a glove in my mouth while trying to use my phone
At six years old, I told the biggest lie I have ever told.
In front of my classmates.
In a church.

That biggest lie launched a love of story telling—the wilder, the deeper the gasps, the more imaginative the better. I often would tell stories to my brother and sister, both believing every word as truth. To this day, I have to remind them that, well, yeah, that was only a story—but I swear, our neighbors did eat our pet goats. Quite rude.

My infamous exaggerations eventually led me to an awkward sit down with my teachers, lecturing on the fine line between telling stories and story telling.

Three years later, I’d unwrap a gift from my mom that would shape my imaginative childhood: my first actual novel, a most appropriate love affair, Anne of Green Gables. Through Anne Shirley’s mistrials, shenanigans, and conundrums, I learned lessons in friendships, in love, in bravery, and most importantly in stories. She still plays an immeasurable role in my life. Kindred spirits will do that to you.

At 25, in a cozy corner of a coffee shop, I daydreamed with one of my best friends about writing a children’s book, about a redheaded girl and her ongoing troublesome love affair with the sun. You’ll eventually meet her and come to know her as Ginger, the little girl that learned of hope with a little help from the Sun and a messy boy named Fritz.

After college, I’d say yes to a whirlwind adventure in the mountains of Peru. It was there, at the Casa Del Aguila orphanage that I learned of the beauty of a subtle hug, the sweet deliciousness of an abandoned child’s giggle, and the value of a silent language over a cup of coffee at sunrise. I wanted the world to know them. I wanted the world to laugh with them, to cry with them. I wanted to share their stories.

It was there, sitting under an avocado tree with a llama in view, that I finally understood the difference between telling stories and storytelling. Stories finally carried a purpose, more than just fun entertainment. It was there, under that tree, that I began a writing journey, dedicating the rest of my life to learning the tricks and trades, the processes, shaping sentences and playing with words all in an exhaustive effort to tell a story.

Thank you for joining me as I begin this open journal, practicing empathy, celebrating kindness, and saying thank you where it’s due. I’m grateful to share this humbling journey, learning the art of writing, with you.

An anxious Ned as he tiptoes onto the back porch for our first snowfall in New England.Well into Winter by now, icycles dangle from Bryan's mustache as we walk through the park.

When I’m not writing for the Dear Newsletter, or scribbling about strangers far too generous to let me bug them, you can find me playing fetch with Ned, our cat, circling the block each morning with, Bryan my handsome brilliant husband, and brushing the tangles from my hair.

Wishing you fresh flowers in your bike basket,