Author’s Note
Life can be confusing, messy, and difficult to make sense of at times.
For just a moment, I wanted to write myself—and anyone who chooses to read—into a version of a life that feels steady, warm, and full. A place where things are held together, where there is space to breathe, and where care and intention shape the days.
This is not a statement of where I am now, but a quiet imagining of where I might one day be. ❤️❤️🩹❤️
Maybe, for a moment, I live as if it has already arrived.
I wake in a condo or apartment in a good neighborhood—quiet, steady, safe. The rooms are warm navy and cream, with touches of dark green in the kitchen. Hydrangeas sit on the counter, fresh and full, their color soft against the light.
The sheets are clean. The air smells faintly of lemon—just enough to feel cared for, never overwhelming.
The refrigerator is stocked with real, whole food. The bills are paid. There is a kind of ease in that—no background noise of worry, just the simple awareness that things are in order.
I step into the living room, coffee in hand, and pause to study a piece of art my friend made. It holds stillness. It holds intention. I let myself look.
My day is already mapped out. Writing for Substack and Svarnac. Building on Patreon. Taking two storytelling calls each month to help others shape their work. Later, filming for Udemy. The work is meaningful, but it does not consume me. It supports me.
The cat weaves around my ankles, drawn to the warmth of the coffee, the quiet of the morning.
At this point, maybe I am not married—and that is okay. My life is not lacking; it is simply mine.
I check my calendar. The next four months are full of calls already booked. That alone feels like a quiet kind of success—something built slowly, carefully, with trust and time.
There is also space in my life for more than work.
Charity. Community. A role in something larger than myself. I think about helping build a community garden in Cleveland—something rooted, something that gives back, something that grows.
Some days, I meet a friend at a familiar place. Applebee’s, simple and Midwestern and real. I order what feels comforting—creamy mac and cheese with bacon bits, a side salad with fresh avocado, a Sprite. The avocado is just right—soft, green, alive.
The day has its rhythm. Its ease. Its quiet joys.
And when I return home, I return to something that feels intentional. A space built with care. A space where I feel safe, valued, and at peace.
Later, I take a coaching call.
We talk about story. About structure. About character. Not from me—never from me—but from them. I simply guide, reflect, support.
They discover what they need: a stronger backstory, a deeper motivation, a reason that lives beyond surface traits. Not to erase who their character is, but to understand them more fully.
People are complex. Grief does not always look like grief. Sometimes it looks like sarcasm. Sometimes it hides in plain sight. My role is to help them see that.
At the end of the day, I return to my home. I feed my cat. I settle into my bed.
There is music. There are flowers. There is art. There are friends and family woven into the fabric of my life.
And there is a kind of quiet I have never quite known before—a regulated nervous system, a steady heart, a life that feels full without being overwhelming.
Not perfect.
Just… held.
And for the first time in a long time, I am at peace with the life I am living.
