I’ve lived through hell—dragged myself through the fire of alcoholism, depression, anxiety, and a lifetime of feeling like I didn’t belong. I wasn’t the girl who got invited in. I was the one whispered about, pushed out, silenced, and labeled “too much” before I even understood what that meant.

For years, I tried to fit in by shrinking myself. I people pleased until I had nothing left to give. I broke my own heart trying to be good enough for people who didn’t know how to love me. And when I couldn’t take it anymore, I disappeared into the only things that numbed the pain—until those things almost destroyed me.

But here’s the plot twist: I didn’t stay there.

I clawed my way out. Slowly. Brutally. Sober since 11/28/23 and finally learning what it means to take up space without apology.

I represent the overthinkers, the survivors—the ones who laugh at inappropriate times and cry behind closed doors. I turn pain into punchlines and breakdowns into books. Not because it’s easy, but because it's the only way I know how to breathe.

Suppose you’ve ever felt like you were too broken, too weird, too sensitive, or just too damn much welcome. You’re my people.

This isn’t a perfectly curated life. This is real. Messy. And still standing.