This summer didn’t go quite how I envisioned it. Back in the spring, I closed my laptop on the first few chapters of my book with big plans to push forward through the summer months. I imagined days of disciplined writing, of sticking to my publishing timeline, of watching the story that has been living inside me for years finally take shape on the page. But that isn’t what happened.
Instead, summer pulled me in a different direction. It pulled me toward my husband and our four young children. It pulled me into sun-soaked afternoons and chaotic family meals, into sticky popsicles and impromptu dance parties in the kitchen. It pulled me into a season that felt, oddly enough, like both a storm and a breath of fresh air after the heavy emotional labor of writing this past spring.
For a while, I let it. I let myself set the book aside. I let the early morning alarms go unanswered. I let my writing muscles rest.
And you know what? I don’t regret it.
I needed that time more than I realized. I needed to soak up my family, to watch my kids’ faces light up in the pool and trips to the mountains of Asheville, to reconnect with my husband in the quiet hours after bedtime, to be reminded of why this story matters—why any of it matters.
But now, as summer begins to wind down in the South and I’m preparing my children’s schedules for the return to school in August, I’ve started finding my way back to the page.
A few days ago, I set my alarm clock early again—earlier than the sun, earlier than the sound of little feet pounding down the hallway. And I started writing.
I thought it might feel daunting to return after so much time away. I thought I might feel sadness at how much ground I had to make up. But instead, it feels different. Lighter. Stronger. Renewed.
Coming back to my manuscript of my memoir with a rested mind has been empowering. The words flow with more clarity. The story feels alive again. And I feel alive in it—not just as a writer chasing a deadline, but as a woman who has walked through darkness and found her voice in the telling.
The first chapters of this book carry some of the heaviest truths I’ve ever put to paper. They tell of a childhood full of chaos, abuse, and survival—a past that shaped me but never defined me. Revisiting those chapters with fresh eyes has reminded me of the strength it took to survive those years, and of the strength it will take to finish this story.
If this summer has taught me anything, it’s this: stepping away isn’t failure. Rest is not giving up. Sometimes, stepping back is how we gather the courage to keep going.
So here I am, back in the early morning hours, tapping away at the keys while the house is still quiet. The deadline is still there, and I intend to meet it. But this time, I’m carrying a little bit of summer with me—the laughter, the light, the reminder that there is life beyond the darkness I’m writing about.
And that feels like the most empowering way to return.