The Writing Journey

I actually started writing without the intention of ever turning what I wrote into a book. At the time, it was simply my form of therapy. After going through something traumatic, I needed a way to cope. For me, that started with walking. I walked for hours, hoping that if my feet kept moving, I wouldn’t feel like I wanted to crawl out of my skin. When walking wasn’t enough to quiet my mind, I started typing on my phone. At first, it was just word vomit. I didn’t care if it made sense.

Some thoughts felt too scary to say out loud, but writing them down made them feel smaller—like I could let them go. There was something comforting about being alone with my words, away from people’s eyes. No judgment, no shame, just me getting it all out.  I wrote more through blurry eyes than I did clear ones, but it helped. Every word I typed felt like I was taking a weight off my shoulders and becoming a person again, even if it was slow and messy. I wrote everything—the good, the bad, and the really hard stuff I couldn’t tell anyone, not even my closest friends. But having it all on paper? That felt like a way to finally share what I couldn’t say. At first, it was just for me. But then I started seeing what happened when I let others in. Sharing pieces of my story helped me feel less alone, and that’s when I realized my writing could be more than therapy—it could help other people too.

That’s how Elise’s story came to life. Writing about trauma wasn’t easy—I didn’t want to sugarcoat it or make it look neat and tidy. Healing doesn’t work that way. There are places and sounds that still bring back ghosts. Nightmares don’t just stop when life gets better. Panic attacks don’t care what you’re doing or who you’re with—they hit when they want. Healing is messy and unpredictable. It’s full of setbacks and moments when you think you’re okay, and then you’re not. I wanted Elise’s story to reflect that because that’s what real healing looks like. It’s not pretty, but it’s real.

The more I wrote, the more I realized how much I needed to share. As I opened up about my experiences, I found other people who shared their stories with me. That’s when it hit me—I wasn’t alone. The things I thought made me weird or broken were things so many others had felt too. Writing “Finding You” became a way to remind myself—and anyone reading—that healing is possible, even when it’s hard. It’s not perfect, it’s not quick, but it’s worth it. Sharing my story helped me find hope, and I hope it does the same for anyone who reads it.