I am a lifelong writer. I wrote and published my only piece of flash fiction at the tender age of six. Alas, my fiction career was short-lived, but from this point, I became devoted to recording my life in journals, notebooks, scraps of paper, correspondence, and blogs. Despite this devotion to chronicling my life it took over fifty years to call myself a writer without rolling my eyes so violently I thought they would fall out of my head. My writing comes from a place of hard-earned wisdom and helps me make sense of the circus in my head all while healing hurts witnessed as a nurse and transforming terrible mothering mistakes into something understandable or even beautiful.

I’m in a chapter of my life where some consider me old and others see me as young. Like most humans, I have allowed myself to be defined by my roles. And those roles are yawningly traditional mother and nurse. But there’s more to my story when you are a queer woman who thinks about things a little too much, snaps odd photos and chases a blinking cursor with words formed into snippets from my life. Sometimes they are funny. Sometimes they are sad. Sometimes they are defined by where I live, off a dirt road surrounded by miles of grass and sky.