Truth be told, I always dreamed of being a writer, I just never dreamed it was possible. And so I kept my words for myself. They were my escape, my therapy, my way of dealing with life's ugliest parts. And then one day, I decided to put my words into the world - my experience of grief in it's most raw and honest and broken form - and that's when something happened that i still don’t quite have the words for. People read them. They bought my journal and picked up my books and they wrote to me. Messages and reviews and comments that have stopped me in my tracks, from people i’ve never met, in places i’ve never been, carrying losses i’ll never fully understand. And they all said some version of the same thing:

I felt seen.

I felt less alone.

I didn’t know anyone else felt like this.

That’s the strange, sacred exchange that happened. I created the prompt journal that the younger me needed, and then poured my pain into its pages because I had no other choice. And somehow, in ways only the universe will ever get, that pain became a place where other people’s grief could breathe. Where it could finally, finally exist without apology.

My words and questions and prompts and reflections found their way to people's hearts. And that is the privilege of my lifetime, even if I would give it all up to have those I've lost back.

From my griefy heart to yours, I wish you didn't need my books. But I am so glad they found you when you did.

Will