I’ve wanted to be many things in my relatively short life and have failed to follow through with most of them. Writing, however, is the one thing I keep getting sucked back into.

Through death, heartbreak, countless rejections, and the grim realities of adulthood, writing has remained one of the great joys of my life.

It gives purpose to floundering in the dark.

When I’m not writing, you can usually find me giving the flowers in my meadow a rousing pep talk, walking my cats around the yard, or rereading a favorite novel for the fifth time.

I love traveling, seeing how people live in other parts of the world, and being reminded just how small mine is. What stays with me is rarely the scenery, but rather the brief, impossible friendships forged in unfamiliar places.

Nothing fulfills me quite like helping others, whether it’s rebuilding homes in impoverished communities abroad or organizing events in my hometown to bring people together.

I find solace in what has otherwise been a rather tragic comedy by trying to make the world a somewhat less shitty place to live.