I started writing poetry as a kid. Not as some devout religious practice, just in moments when it hit me. When the muse arrived, I had no choice but to entertain her. From poetry, I conjured the fantasy of writing a visually stunning, melancholy film. I never got too far with that creative twinkle, but at least I got to project it in my mind.

Once I became a healing arts practitioner (aka anti-corporate and anti-bullshit) and started seeing the world in new ways, I tried to start writing a book quite a few times. Ultimately, it took continuously getting smacked in the face with my relationship to work, career, and income to finally see the light. The process of writing became a funny, tortured, mind-numbing, and cathartic exploration of where I’m from and where I’d been. It gave me a smidge of hope that I still had time to create a life on my own terms—even though each heartbreak along the way made it feel damn-near impossible.

Like the saying goes, we’re all just walking each other home. Or, as I would retell it: FUCK. What the FUCK is going on?! Do you feel crazy too?