My Story Is Still Unfolding; There's No Bow, No Shelf, Just The Next Chapter

On where I stand today, and my biggest hope about what comes next.

I’ve always been a writer, always found solace in putting words on paper, in sharing pieces of my journey with the hope that someone else might find comfort or validation in them. But there’s a particular pressure in writing when people expect a clean conclusion—a resolution, a lessons-learned section, a pretty little bow wrapped around the chaos.

Here’s the thing: My story is still unfolding.

And I know that feels really raw. And unsure. But it’s also the truth. And I’d 100% of the time rather read the truth than just something that feels good, especially if any shred of me can relate.

I had such a strong feeling that my story needed to reach others that I even detailed some of it from the inside out here for the To Write Love on Her Arms audience.

My story is still somewhere in the middle - I’m not still standing at the beginning, and I certainly haven’t reached the end. I mean, in that respect, we are all stories still going. But I also look at stories differently now that I have in the not too distant past felt as if mine had an expiration date, a shelf life, a time by which it was going to disintegrate if I did not return to it.

I no longer feel that sense of desperation, but instead, a whisper of determination.

I can’t box up the years of compounding traumas and the experiences that feel critical to detail neatly and place them on a shelf. I can’t say, “Here’s how I overcame it all,” because the truth is, I’m still in the thick of it. The grief, the trauma, the resilience, the searching—I’m still here, living inside of it, navigating through the layers as they continue to reveal themselves.

For years, I have written about infertility, loss, medical trauma, and mental health struggles, each word a reflection of what I’ve lived through, a way of reaching across the void to someone else who might be drowning in their own version of it. And yet, even as I write today, I know that this is not the end of my story. This is where I start to make purpose out of my pain. Where I try to make sense of what I’ve had to endure in hoping that it will provide something - a whisper, a hug, a silent friend - to the person who is standing where I started. Who does need what I needed then.

I am not yet at a place where I can tie it all up with a heartfelt conclusion.

Instead, I stand in the middle of the mess, aware that my journey is a continuum, not a completed manuscript.

What I do know is this: I am beginning to outline a memoir—not a book of resolutions, but a guide for those who love the brokenhearted, for those who wish to hold space for people walking through grief and trauma, for those who don’t know what to say or do but know they need to do something, they need to say something. I want to illuminate the ways we can show up for one another, the ways we can love someone back to life.

Because the truth is, healing is not a solo journey.

I have spent so much time believing I had to bear this weight alone, that I had to process it, make sense of it, and come out on the other side with a wise and tidy perspective. But life doesn’t work like that. Loss isn’t something you simply overcome.

It reshapes you.

It reconfigures the map of who you are.

And the only way to survive it is through connection—through people who sit beside you in the wreckage and remind you that you are still here, still breathing, still worthy of love.

This memoir, this next chapter of my story, won’t be a prescription for healing. It won’t tell you how to fix the brokenhearted, because there is no fixing—only witnessing, only loving, only walking alongside them as they learn to carry the weight. It will be raw and unfiltered, just as I have always been in my writing, because if there’s anything I’ve learned in my life, but in the last 4 years specifically, it’s that honesty is the foundation of true connection.

So for now, I write from the middle.

From the place where there are still more questions than answers, still more ache than resolution. But I write knowing that in sharing the journey, even while it is still in motion, I am offering something real.

And maybe, just maybe, that is enough.