A Little Chaos and a Lot of Deadlines

Life lately feels like someone handed me a checklist designed by a drunk god.
Move homes. Write a novel. Edit said novel. Raise children. Transfer said children to a new school. Run a website. Add a shop. Make merch. Post on TikTok. Post on Instagram. Pretend to be a functioning adult. Hydrate. Breathe. Guess what day it is and usually be wrong.

If I sound dramatic, it’s because I haven’t slept since the dinosaurs died.

Chaos hits different when you're choosing it on purpose. Every stupid task, taping a box, deleting a paragraph, packing school lunches at 11 p.m.—drags you into a version of yourself you didn’t sign up for, but here you are anyway. Not softer, not calmer. Just… sharper. A little tired. A little dangerous.

I’m moving houses soon.
Not the “I’ll start packing tomorrow” kind. The “half my things are in boxes and the other half are staring at me like I’ve betrayed them” kind. Every room feels done with me. That’s fine. I’m done with it too.

And in the middle of this circus?
The book.

People ask how the writing is going. Which is cute. Writing a psychological thriller while juggling real life feels like starring in my own crime documentary. One minute I’m editing a kidnapping scene, the next I’m wiping peanut butter off a school uniform. One minute I’m writing morally questionable romance, the next I’m Googling “why is my vacuum making that noise.” There is no balance. There is only survival.

But somehow the story keeps growing.
I’m editing chapters with a laptop on top of laundry piles. Shooting TikToks with dark circles big enough to have their own zip code. Running on coffee and spite. And somehow? People are finding my work. The website traffic keeps rising. The shop is alive. New subscribers show up like tiny miracles that say, “Don’t quit yet.”

Meanwhile my kids are switching schools soon, which means paperwork, meetings, and pretending I remembered everything. All while editing trauma scenes because apparently my writing schedule doesn’t believe in boundaries.

The shop is a whole different beast. Checking samples, fixing prices, wrestling with shipping settings like I’m defusing a bomb. Some days it feels like managing a tiny, chaotic business built out of duct tape. Other days it feels brilliant.

TikTok, Instagram, the website—they all want attention like starving houseplants I didn’t ask for. But every time I show up, people read. People care. People wait for the next thing. Visibility still feels strange, like someone turned on a light I wasn’t ready for. But it’s warmer than I expected.

And somewhere in all this mess, I can feel myself shifting. Not in a poetic way. In a “wow, I’m actually doing all of this, what the hell” way. I’m rebuilding a life from scratch while writing a book about people doing the exact same thing but with more blood.

So yes..life is insane.
My home looks like a storage unit.
My book is a clingy toddler.
The website is growing faster than I can keep up.
The shop has opinions.
The kids are tired but excited.
And I am running purely on willpower.

But underneath all of it?

I’m becoming someone I actually like.

If you stick around, you might see what happens next.

And if you subscribe, you’ll get early chapters, deleted scenes, messy drafts, bonus content, and whatever else I accidentally overshare at 3 a.m.

But mostly, I’m moving into a new version of myself. And the truth is, when you grow, you don’t get to keep everything you used to carry. Sometimes the old habits stay behind. Sometimes the old version of you stays behind. Sometimes people do too. And it’s not cruel, it’s not dramatic..it’s just how life works. Everyone grows at their own pace, and you can’t drag anyone into a chapter they’re not ready for.

So I’m embracing my own pace. My own direction. My own expansion.