I never set out to make sense of my life. I just wanted to survive it.

Somewhere between New York sirens and Vermont silence, I learned that memory doesn’t arrive like a knock at the door—it comes as weather. Sudden. Heavy. Familiar. Sometimes, it sounds like a woman’s voice saying goodbye for the last time. Other times, it’s a piano. A mandolin. The kind of music that doesn’t ask for attention—it just knows.

I’ve spent years inside burning buildings, twisted metal, and broken systems, trying to pull people out before they gave up. Some I saved. Some I didn’t. Most days, I don’t talk about that part. But the truth is—it’s all still here. In the callused palms, the quiet mornings, the playlists I shuffle like tarot cards.

I wasn’t built for small talk. I was built for the unspoken, the moment just before collapse—the place where everyone else gets scared and steps back, and I step in.

So no, this isn’t a comeback story. It’s not a victory lap. It’s just… me. A woman who never got to be soft until it was safe. Who never got to be known until she told the story herself.

And if you’re here, listening—thank you. That means you’re willing to stay for the hard parts.

The rain’s coming. It always does. But so does the music.

And in this life of ashes and aftershocks—sometimes, that’s enough.

People always want to talk about the fire. About the sirens, the rescues, the so-called, “heroics”. They want to know how many lives I saved—how many times I walked into hell and didn’t blink.

But they never ask what it cost.

They don’t ask what it’s like to come home after a watching a family burn up in a house fire, shower three times, and still feel like blood is under your skin.
They don’t ask how it feels to lose someone you were never supposed to know by name—but did. Because she reminded you of someone. Because you remembered her shoes.

They don’t ask what happens when the pager goes quiet—but your head doesn’t.

But this—this story? It’s not just about fire. It’s about everything that comes after.

About finding peace in a town with more cows than people.
About letting your body heal, even when your memory won’t.
About finally buying that HomePod and giving your playlist the room it deserves.

It’s about painting your nails pure blue because that color has always felt like freedom.
About being happy, healthy, and completely whole despite the world insisting you shouldn’t be.

It’s about women. God, it’s always been about women.
The ones I’ve loved.
The ones I couldn’t keep.
The ones who broke me.
The ones who built me back.
And Amelia—my part-time lover and full-time best friend, my mirror, my tether to something that still felt worth protecting.

And it’s about music. Always music.

Because when the words failed, the songs didn’t.
When the trauma silenced me, the harmonies carried what I couldn’t say.

I’ve lived in the margins.
In the “other” box.
The unknown gender.
The unspeakable trauma.
The untold story.

But I’m not afraid of the margins anymore.

Because this isn’t a story about what happened to me.
It’s a story about what I kept.

My hands.
My grit.
My clarity.
My name.
My truth.

So if you’re still here, past the wreckage, past the rain, past the mandolin and the memory—

Welcome.
You found me.

And that… that’s enough.