Money: The Most Intimate Thing We Don’t Talk About

Here’s the thing I’ve been circling for a while now: money is one of the most practical, impactful topics in our lives—and yet, among friends, it’s often treated like a taboo. Talking about finances can feel awkward, impolite, or weirdly intimate. We’ll talk about relationships, health scares, therapy, SEX, and existential dread before we’ll talk about salaries and debt.

I find myself wanting a small circle of friends where money isn’t taboo. Not competitive. Not braggy. Just… collaborative. A group where we can talk openly about how to lower expenses—because someone always knows a trick you don’t. A better phone plan. A smarter insurance setup. A way to renegotiate a bill you assumed was fixed forever. 

And just as important: a group where we can talk about increasing income. Side projects. Negotiation strategies. Teaching gigs, freelance work, investments, opportunities. Rising together doesn’t mean everyone makes the same choices—it means information flows freely enough that people can decide what’s right for them.

What’s interesting is that when these conversations do happen—usually accidentally, or one-on-one. Someone finally admits they’re confused. Someone else says, “Oh, I’ve been there.” 

I think most progress comes from shared knowledge and shared resources. Avoiding money talk preserves a polite distance, but it also keeps everyone reinventing the wheel alone.

I don’t want money conversations to replace joy, creativity, or connection. I want them to support those things. I want friendships where we can talk about food and spreadsheets. Dreams and deductions. The emotional side of life and the logistical one.

Why “Make Me Look Skinny” Made Me Quit Photographing People

Dear friends,

Please be patient with me as I relearn how to take pictures of people.

I’m out of practice. Rusty doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m more “found in the back of a garage under a tarp” than “needs a quick tune-up.”

For years—years—I actively avoided photographing people. This wasn’t an accident. It was a series of conscious decisions layered with rationalizations, preferences, and a healthy dose of self-preservation. Let me explain.

I was trying to be considerate

Some people truly do not want their picture taken. They freeze. They grimace. They raise a hand like a traffic cop and say, “Nope.” And I respect that.

Asking every single time, “Is this okay? How about now? What about now but from the left?” starts to get tedious. It feel like interrupting a moment to ask permission to document it. The flow dies. The magic evaporates. Everyone becomes hyper-aware of their face.

So I opted out. Food doesn’t object. Landscapes never say, “Wait, I wasn’t ready.” Shadows are always emotionally available.

I like pictures that not everyone likes of themselves

I love candids. I love the in-between moments. The half-laugh, the blink, the expression that lasts a fraction of a second before someone remembers they’re being observed. Those moments feel true to me. They make my heart go pitter-patter.

Other people, however, would like their eyes open, their posture corrected, their chin lifted, and their complexion gently retouched.

Sometimes my favorite photo of someone is the one they immediately hate. And that’s awkward for everyone.

Expectations can be… ambitious

I’ve heard some version of “Make me look skinny” more times than I can count. If you are not skinny, that is a challenging request. I’m a photographer. Not a magician. Not a sentient Instagram filter.

Yes, there are lenses, angles, lighting tricks, and retouching tools. All of those take time, energy, and skill. Retouching alone is its own art form and a significant investment of time and energy. And they usually don’t have the patience to put all of that into practice.

I’m bad at posing people. Truly bad.

Telling someone where to put their hands while remembering camera settings, composition, and lighting is a skill I never fully committed to learning. I avoid it. I panic. I say things like, “Just… be normal?” which has never helped anyone in the history of photography.

People are messy and expressive and complicated and impossible to replicate in 2D.

People photography requires emotional labor.

This one doesn’t get talked about enough.

When you photograph people, you’re managing insecurities, expectations, energy, and sometimes decades of baggage they bring to their own reflection. That’s real work.

You’re not just composing a frame—you’re reassuring, directing, encouraging, translating intention into something visible. Some days I don’t want to do that. Some days I want to photograph light hitting a wall and go home.

I didn’t want to deal with the aftermath.

Because the photo session doesn’t end when the shutter clicks. It continues in the texts. The emails. The “Do you have any more where I look better?” The comparisons. The requests. The quiet disappointment when the images don’t match the version of themselves they were hoping for.

Avoiding people meant avoiding all of that.

And yet…

People are the point this all began for me. I didn’t study photography to take pictures of my food. I got it to take pictures of the people I love. 

So here I am. Relearning. Shaking off the rust. Remembering how to talk while shooting. Remembering that awkwardness is survivable. Remembering that not every photo needs to please everyone, sometimes it just needs to exist.

If I photograph you and it feels a little clunky, a little unpolished, a little “we’re figuring this out together,” that’s accurate.

I’m practicing. I’m rebuilding muscle memory. I’m saying yes more often instead of hiding behind abstract objects and excellent excuses.

Thank you for your patience.

And for standing there while I remember how to do this thing I avoided for so long.

I promise I’m trying.

Friends, Take My Picture Already

Friends. Listen up. We need to have a serious talk. A camera talk. A “this-is-not-a-drill” talk. Let’s make a little pact. A sacred, non-negotiable, morally binding pact. The next time we hang out IRL, let’s… gasp… take pictures of each other. And then—here’s the revolutionary part—actually trade them.

I Want Memories Too!

I don’t have nearly as many pictures of myself as I would like. You’d think I do. I’m a photographer, after all. I have cameras glued to my hands. I should be drowning in images of me, right? Wrong. Dead wrong. I am shockingly absent from my own photo archives.

Why? Because when I hang out with non-photographers, I automatically become the default group photographer. “Grace will take pictures. Grace always takes pictures.” And indeed, I do. I capture the laughter, the awkward mid-sentence hand gestures, the perfect light hitting the plate of food. Pictures for everyone!!! Everyone, that is, except me. 

And if I’m with my photographer friends? Still nope! You’d think pros would be amazing at this. BUT, they’re off duty. They’re relaxing. They’re thinking, “I’m not getting paid for this.” Which, fine, I get it. But now I’m stuck trying to photograph myself in the wild, like a sad influencer. 

Of course, there are exceptions. Asian friends, for example, are absolute monsters with the camera. They will snap hundreds of shots. But here’s the catch—they’re usually posed shots. Faux candids, as I like to call them. “Look like you’re laughing naturally while subtly tucking your chin down 15 degrees.” Close, but no. I want raw, chaotic, slightly embarrassing realness. 

A Fair Trade Agreement (No Photo, No Mercy)

So here’s my plea. Friends. Please. Please. Take pictures of me. Maybe two. Maybe twenty. And make them good. Real. Human. Alive.

And here’s the deal: I am nothing if not a fair negotiator. No trade, no mercy. No picture for me, no picture for you. Think of it as photographic karma. You capture me, I capture you. We all win.

Life is short. Someday we’ll look back on these images and be grateful, not just for the perfect smiles and flattering angles, but for the messy, unposed, unpolished moments. The ones that actually show us living.

A Small Rant About Isan/Isaan/Esaan Food

As you venture off to eat Isan food without me (tragic, emotionally devastating), I feel compelled to address a personal pet peeve. A trigger, if you will. And yes, it’s about the food.

Specifically, the moment when someone—often well-meaning, often very confident—says. “That’s not Thai food. It’s Lao.”

Cue my internal scream.

Here’s the thing: I don’t disagree entirely. I just disagree with the either/or framing. Because I believe it’s more complex than that, I think it’s BOTH. And also because… this is personal.

Why I Care (More Than Is Reasonable)

My mother is from the Isan region of Thailand. So is my older sister (long story, another post). I spent many summers in Sakon Nakhon with my mom’s family and Roi Et with my sister, eating sticky rice with my hands, learning flavors before I learned vocabulary, and absorbing a culture that lives very loudly in my bones. In our home, both Thai and Lao were spoken equally.

So when people argue about whether Isan food is “really” Lao or “really” Thai, they’re not just debating cuisine. They’re debating identity, history, and who gets to claim what.

And that’s where my eye starts twitching.

A Very Brief (I Promise) History Lesson

To understand my pet peeve, we need to rewind a bit—back to the Lan Xang Kingdom. Lan = million, Xang = elephants (excellent branding).

Lan Xang was a Lao-speaking, sticky rice–loving, Mekong River–centered civilization whose cultural footprint included:

• Present-day Laos

• Most of Isan (northeastern Thailand)

• Parts of what are now Cambodia and Vietnam
  

The people of this region called themselves Lao.

My mother still considers herself Lao ethnically and Thai nationally. And not because she or her family is from the country of Laos, but because she is descended from the Lao people, some of whom now live in a country called Laos, and some live in a country called Thailand.

Isan food = Lao roots + Thai evolution

This is the part people miss.

Isan cuisine has roots in dishes from the Lan Xang (Lao) culture with Thai influence. Lao food (in Laos) evolved on its own path too.

As the Isan region was gradually incorporated into Siam and later Thailand:

• Ingredients changed (more access to palm sugar, fish sauce styles, Thai chilies)

• Techniques adapted

• Flavors shifted slightly sweeter, saltier, sometimes richer

• Dishes absorbed Central Thai influences while keeping Lao structure
  
  

Cuisine is alive. It migrates, adapts, and hybridizes. So when someone says, “That dish is Lao, not Thai,” they’re usually half right. Ethnically and culturally? Yes, Lao. Nationally and culinarily today? Also Thai. Both things can be true at the same time. Imagine that.

Modern Thai cuisine already includes multiple regional traditions, and Isan food is one of them.

My Recommended Isan Dishes (Eat Like You Mean It)

Here are some of my favorites, the dishes I grew up eating and adore.

• Som Tam (ส้มตำ) – The iconic papaya salad, bright, spicy, and addictive.

• Larb (ลาบ) – Minced meat salad with herbs, lime, and toasted rice; tangy, fresh, and unapologetically flavorful.

• Khao Niew (ข้าวเหนียว) – Sticky rice, the backbone of every meal; use your hands, it’s the only way.

• Gai Yang (ไก่ย่าง) – Grilled chicken marinated with garlic and herbs, smoky and perfect over charcoal.
  

• Kor Moo Yang (คอหมูย่าง) – Grilled pork neck; juicy, tender, and full of smoky flavor.

• Sai Krok Isan (ไส้กรอกอีสาน) – Fermented Isan sausage, slightly sour, a little funky, and wildly addictive.

• Tom Saep (ต้มแซ่บ) – Hot and sour soup with herbs and chilies; comforting, spicy, and tangy.

• Nam Tok (น้ำตก) – Literally “waterfall” salad; grilled meat tossed with lime, herbs, and toasted rice powder.

• Naem Khao Tod (แหนมข้าวทอด)– Crispy rice salad with fermented pork, herbs, lime, and chilies; crunchy, tangy, and deeply flavorful.

• Khao Jee (ข้าวจี่) – Grilled sticky rice brushed with egg, smoky and chewy perfection in every bite.

• Jim Jum (จิ้มจุ่ม) – Isan-style hot pot with herbal broth, cooked at the table, meant to be shared.

• Gaeng Nor Mai (แกงหน่อไม้) – Shredded bamboo shoots gently cooked in yanang leaf juice until tender and nearly dry, then mixed with fresh herbs. Earthy, fragrant, and herbaceous, it’s subtly tangy and deeply flavorful

• Kai Mod Daeng (ไข่มดแดง)– Red ant eggs, often in soup or salad; adventurous, funky, and a true taste of traditional Isan.

Single by Choice: Why Some of Us Prefer a Relationship-Free Life

Love can be wonderful. Partnership can be beautiful. And some of us… have opted out—at least for now, and very much on purpose.

I have a subset of friends who are single by choice. Not bitter. Not unlucky. Not “couldn’t find anyone.” Just deliberately, intentionally relationship-free. It’s similar to the child-free conversation: people are beginning to understand that choice a little better, even if it still raises eyebrows. This one? Not so much.

Let’s Clear Something Up…

So let me address the elephant in the room with a little humor and a lot of clarity:

Do you REALLY think we can’t get laid? That we aren’t getting laid?

Because that seems to be the default assumption. As if choosing to be single automatically means we’re unwanted or untouched. Most of us absolutely could find partners, and many of us are already intimate in the ways that suit our lives. We’re not celibate by force. We just refuse to lower our standards or sign up for relationships that shrink us.

Standards Aren’t Entitlement. They’re Alignment

That’s the real conversation: standards. Not entitlement—alignment. For many of us, the single life is simply more fulfilling than compromising in ways that would cost us peace, autonomy, creativity, or joy.

We find intimacy in friendships and family. Sometimes in casual connections. Sometimes in solitude. Our lives aren’t empty — they’re full in different, meaningful ways.

Yes! A Fulfilled Life Exists Outside Romance

And yes, I know some people can’t imagine that. A life without a spouse to lean on. A home without children. A calendar that isn’t structured around a partner. But this life exists. We exist. And our fulfillment doesn’t hinge on a romantic relationship slot being filled.

We already compromise in a thousand other places: careers, responsibilities, family obligations. Choosing not to compromise on who we share our lives with is intentional.

Friendship Without Assumptions

What I want more of are friendships that feel easy and unburdened. Friends who can hang out without assumptions. Where closeness isn’t confused with pursuit. Where connection can simply be what it is in the moment — laughter over coffee, a walk at sunset, deep conversation, or comfortable silence.

No hidden agenda. No quiet evaluation of whether this might “be something more.” Just… being human together.

Not Anti-Love—Just Anti-Settling

And here’s the thing: it’s not that any of us have sworn off committed, monogamous relationships forever. Most of us haven’t. If the right person showed up, someone whose presence expands life rather than constricts it, we’d recognize that.

We’re just unwilling to force it. Unwilling to treat partnership as a checkbox. Unwilling to trade a life we love for one that only sort of fits.

Single Is a Whole Life, Not a Half One

Choosing singlehood isn’t a failure or a fallback plan. It’s a conscious choice for a life.

And if you know someone who has chosen this road, trust them when they say they’re fulfilled. There’s a whole, vibrant world inside a relationship-free life — and it’s not a consolation prize. It’s simply another way of being free.

Alone Time: Why Your Brain (and Heart) Need Space

There’s a kind of bliss that comes from being alone that you just can’t replicate anywhere else. I’m talking about true alone time—the kind where you don’t have to consider anyone else’s needs, wants, moods, or preferences. No negotiating plans. No mental checklist of who needs what. Just space to exist as you are, doing what you want, when you want.

For many, that kind of time is rare, but it becomes even more elusive when you don’t live alone. Whether you’re sharing space with a partner, kids, roommates, or even a very expressive pet, you’re always balancing someone else’s needs alongside your own. Life becomes a constant exercise in compromise. And while connection and companionship matter deeply, it doesn’t change the reality that you’re still “on” most of the time. And it can be exhausting.

When Life Becomes an Endless To-Do List

For so many of us, life feels like a rolling wave of obligations: work, school, family commitments, social expectations — and then the invisible layer of everything else. Sleep (hopefully). Commuting. Showering. Cooking. Cleaning. Laundry. Dusting. Maybe even scrubbing the shower that’s been silently judging you for weeks.

All those everyday basics quietly eat up your time and energy until there’s almost nothing left for the activities that actually refill your cup. Sometimes “self-care” isn’t a bubble bath — it’s finally organizing your desk so you can think straight.

Burnout Doesn’t Always Roar — Sometimes It Whispers

Burnout creeps in quietly. Mentally, it shows up as brain fog, irritability, or feeling like every decision — even tiny ones — is exhasting. Emotionally, you may feel detached or unmotivated. Physically, the exhaustion is real. Your body keeps the score, and suddenly you’re tired all the time.

That’s where I’ve found myself lately: worn down from constantly juggling the mental load. I spend so much of my free time sleeping — not because I’m sad, but because I’m depleted. Some friends wonder if I’m depressed, but I don’t feel disconnected from life. I’m just tired and craving rest. I want time to do the things that feed my soul instead of rushing from one obligation to another.

Can anyone else relate to this bone-deep tiredness?

The Hidden Weight of Constant Communication

Sometimes the people in your life simply don’t realize how stretched thin you are. From the outside, not replying to a text can look like dismissal. After all, it “only takes a second,” right?

Except that one message rarely exists alone. It’s sitting in a queue next to fifteen other texts, twenty emails, group chats, Facebook messages, Instagram DMs, WhatsApp notifications — all chiming at all hours.

And it’s not just the time it takes to respond — it’s the mental gear-shifting. Every notification pulls your attention away from wherever your brain finally landed. That interruption breaks flow — that fragile, precious mental state where you’re deeply focused or deeply relaxed. Research shows it can take 15–30 minutes to fully return to flow… and many of us are interrupted every few minutes.

So we never really arrive.

Instead, we’re constantly task-switching — and every switch burns energy. No wonder we’re exhausted.

That’s why responding to messages can sometimes feel heavier than people expect. It’s not the words — it’s the cost of leaving the headspace you worked so hard to enter.

Blending Connection With Real Life

The goal isn’t isolation. Relationships matter. But connection doesn’t have to compete with your energy — sometimes it can support it.

I’ve started leaning into errand dates. Instead of expensive lunches (while incomes… aren’t keeping pace), we’ll grocery shop together, hit the post office, or wander thrift store while catching up. We get meaningful time together — and we also get things done.

Other ideas that work beautifully:

• Task hangouts — bring bills or laptops and work side-by-side
• Quiet work hangs — focus first, chat after
• Meal-prep together — leave with full containers and a lighter heart

Connection doesn’t always need a reservation or a bill at the end.

Protecting the Sacred Space of Solitude

And yes — sometimes you truly do need time alone. Undisturbed. Silent. Yours.

You can make that easier by:

• Scheduling solitude like any other commitment
• Giving it a name — “reset night,” “studio time,” “quiet work”
• Saying “not tonight” without apology

Your energy is worth guarding.

Helping Others Understand Your Bandwidth

Most people don’t want you burned out — they just don’t realize how much you’re carrying. A simple, honest share can go a long way:

“If I don’t respond right away, it’s not personal. Sometimes my brain just can’t switch gears without burning out. I’ll reply when I have the bandwidth.”

And give others that grace, too.

Alone Time Isn’t Selfish — It’s Repair

In a world that never stops knocking at the door of our attention, alone time is how we heal. It’s how we reconnect with ourselves so we don’t disappear inside our responsibilities. It’s how we come back to our relationships with presence instead of depletion.

So if you’re exhausted, you’re not failing.

You’re simply overdue for quiet.

A Cover Letter, a Pop Song, and a Moment of Realization

You ever do something so delightfully unhinged that you immediately think, “Okay… maybe not everyone will get this”? That was me last night when I turned my serious, adult cover letter into a pop song—with AI as my co-writer.

The People Who Love It… and the People Who Don’t

I sent it to a friend, proud of my catchy little experiment, and he immediately said, “I would not recommend sending that in for any jobs that you want.” Fair. Some people need their cover letters in paragraph form, not verse-chorus-verse.

And then there’s another friend who has a visceral hatred of everything AI-related. To him, AI is basically the villain in every dystopian movie ever made—something that will inevitably be used for manipulation, shortcuts, and the downfall of civilization. If you say “machine learning,” he hears “Skynet.”

And yes—someone out there will absolutely misuse it. Just like someone misuses a hammer, a camera, or a keyboard. But that’s not a reason for the rest of us to freeze our creativity in place.

I’m someone who believes AI is like a hammer. It can help build a house or tear one down. The tool isn’t inherently good or evil; it’s the intention behind the swing.

Why This Debate Feels Familiar (Photographers Know This Story)

As a photographer, this entire debate feels like déjà vu. Artists used to scoff at the camera itself. Photography wasn’t “real art,” they said—it was just a machine copying reality. No skill. No soul. Just a mechanical trick. Photographers fought for decades to show that artistry lives in timing, composition, emotion, craft, and the human behind the lens.

And then, decades later, digital photography arrived—and the analog photographers scoffed again. Digital wasn’t “pure.” It wasn’t “authentic.” It was too easy, too accessible, too immediate. Sound familiar? Yet here we are: digital photography not only won acceptance, it helped unleash an entirely new world of creativity, accessibility, and artistic expression.

The medium expanded. The tools evolved. The artist remained.

AI as a Creative Partner, Not a Replacement

That’s how I see AI: an evolution of tools, not an erasure of the artist.

Lately, I’ve been leaning into AI a lot more—sometimes for brainstorming, sometimes for polishing my writing, and sometimes for those moments when my brain feels like it’s buffering. It’s the extra brain cell that shows up when mine is on lunch break. I treat AI-generated content as suggestions, not gospel.

In my world, AI is a collaborator, not a ghostwriter. Everything still goes through my taste, my edits, my judgment, my sensibilities. It doesn’t erase my voice; it sharpens it. It helps me experiment more, write faster, and save my energy for the ideas, the storytelling, the teaching, and the creating.

It’s not for everyone, and that’s okay. But right now, using it helps me build more, explore more, and stress a whole lot less.

And for me? That’s worth embracing.

A Season Ending, A New One Beginning

There comes a point when you look at the life you’ve built, tilt your head a little, and think, Huh… this doesn’t fit the way it used to.

That’s where I’ve been standing lately, in that strange place where something you’ve poured yourself into no longer feels like the thing you want to carry.

This is the story of why I’m sunsetting my photography business.

When the Thing You Love Starts Feeling Heavy

Photography has been with me for decades—my second language, my constant companion, the way I memorialize my world. But somewhere along the way, what once felt like play started to feel like pressure.

And not the artistic kind. The timeline kind.

We live in a world that moves fast. Faster than my creative process wants to move. So many people expect images immediately — sometimes the same day, often long before a realistic timeline. But what many folks never see is how much time lives behind the scenes: the culling, the editing, the retouching, the quiet hours shaping a photograph into something compelling.

Some photographers have mastered managing those expectations. They set tight boundaries, they have airtight workflows, and they protect their time like seasoned pros. I admire that. I could learn it, practice it, bake it into my routine.

But I’m at a point where I don’t want to. Because my priorities have shifted in a big way.

A Creative Spark Reignited

This fall at Long Beach City College changed everything for me. Fourteen weeks surrounded by painters, designers, photographers, dancers, musicians, and makers of every sort—it was like walking into a room where everyone speaks the same first language you do.

Being in that environment cracked something open. I started feeling curious again. Inspired again. Hungry again.

And that’s when I realized: I want to spend my time creating what I want to create. I want to take the photos that call to me, not the ones on someone else’s deadline. I want to write more. The words have been piling up in my head for years. I want to experiment with AI music, because while lyrics come naturally to me. The melod—not so much. And that challenge feels… exhilarating.

New Avenues, New Adventures

My photography business started as a side hustle. A helpful way to earn a little extra. But the technology, bless its chaotic heart, has opened up whole new ways to make that extra cash — ways that align much more naturally with where my energy is going now.

And I’m leaning in.

I know the things I make from here on out won’t be for everyone. Some people will love it, some won’t. Art isn’t supposed to be universal. It’s supposed to be real.

And I truly believe there’s an audience out there — maybe big, maybe small — for the kind of work I’m stepping into. The only way to find them is to create, release, repeat.

A Season Ending, A New One Beginning

I’m not stepping away from photography as a whole. Not at all. I’m stepping away from the business of it. I want the craft back. I want the joy back. I want the freedom to chase ideas without a clock ticking behind me.

So I’m choosing a new season. One with a little more air. A little more curiosity. A little more space to rediscover the parts of myself that got buried under deadlines and expectations.

To everyone who trusted me with your moments — thank you, genuinely. Those experiences shaped me more than you know.

And now… I’m ready to see where this next chapter leads. Here’s to creating from joy again — and to following the light wherever it goes.

Too Many Em Dashes? Good. That Means I Wrote It.

People on social media think AI writing has a tell: the em dash.

I laughed—then paused.

And then I felt… weirdly offended.

Because I use em dashes. A lot. I also use en dashes, hyphens, semicolons, and ellipses (LOTS of ellipses). I can’t help it, I’m Gen X—I love punctuation—like, really love it. So when I heard that comment, it felt like someone had just walked into my kitchen, tasted my cooking, and said, “This tastes too good. It must’ve come from a box.”

Why It Stings When People Think It's AI

So yeah, when someone assumes my writing is AI-generated because of a punctuation choice, I get twitchy. Not because I hate AI—it’s a tool like any other. But writing is personal to me. It's how I make meaning out of the million thoughts racing through my head.

In case you didn’t know, English isn’t my first language. I had to EARN fluency—the rhythm, the nuance, the melody of it. I had to learn how to make words correct AND compelling.

That’s why I care if you think what I wrote is machine-made. Because it’s not. It’s blood, sweat, and em dashes.

Why I Write

I write to process, to preserve, and to play. I write when I’m heartbroken. I write when I’m furious. I write when I’m buzzing with ideas that might disappear. Writing is my way out of the chaos and into clarity.

I write to entertain, sure, but I also want to make people feel. I want them to read stories that make people feel less alone in their weirdness, their worry, their ambitions.

I write to connect. Even though we live in a world saturated with content, real connection still feels rare. And precious.

Do I also write to sell things? Yes. I write to promote, persuade, and position ideas. But even in marketing, I don’t aim for manipulation. I believe in resonance. If you connect with what I’m saying, if it feels true to you, or nudges a shift—that’s the win.

I write to shape the world I want to live in.

There’s nothing like the moment when someone says, “I read your post, and I felt that.” When someone tells me they laughed, cried, or even just paused to think because of something I wrote? My heart goes pitter-patter.

Where It All Began

I’ve been writing since elementary school, ever since I got that first pink Hello Kitty diary. I don’t remember this at all, but my dad does. He tells me so. I moved on to notebooks, to blogs, and now social media.

My love affair with punctuation started the day Mike LaNoue handed me a copy of Eats, Shoots & Leaves two decades ago. That book turned me into a full-blown punctuation snob, and I have zero regrets.

I care about grammar, too. Just ask Marcia and Laura—we’ve been sharing grammar memes back since back in the days when you actually had to email them.

Do I flub spelling or grammar sometimes? Sure. But I also break the rules on purpose—Stephen King says that’s allowed.

The Process

I write when I’m inspired, when I’m exhausted, and often when I’ve had a glass of wine (or six). I write late at night, when the world quiets down, but the thoughts haven’t.

You have no idea how many hundreds of drafts sit on my computer, incomplete. Or how many words, sentence fragments, and ideas sit in notebooks or scraps of paper strewn across my desk. I have a bank of words and phrases that spark something in me. I stash them away, hoping to use them one day.

I write fast and messy, and then I edit when I’m sober.

And yes—I do use AI tools. Grammarly, ChatGPT. I treat them like a thesaurus or a smart friend who can help me say the thing I’m trying to say more clearly, not a ghostwriter. They help me catch typos and sharpen phrasing. But I don’t just copy-paste what they suggest. I cull. I curate. I rewrite, rework, and revise until it feels right in my bones.

And if AI tries to sneak in too many em dashes? Trust me—I’ll still be the one deciding which ones stay.

Who Inspires Me

Writers leave fingerprints on me. Not because I tried to copy them, but because I studied them. I asked questions: Why does this line hit so hard? Why does this joke land? Why does this feel true, even when it’s fiction? Every time I found an answer, I came away a little changed—my voice a little sharper, my ear a little keener.

• Jasmine Star taught me how to engage. Her captions read like conversations over coffee—warm, direct, and a little bit caffeinated. From her, I learned that connection isn’t just nice; it’s the best conversion tool out there.
• Stephen King taught me that storytelling isn’t about monsters or plot twists. It’s about people—their fears, flaws, and fragile attempts to do the right thing.
• Anthony Bourdain taught me how to feel life. His words were visceral: greasy spoon diners, cigarette smoke, jet lag, laughter in languages he barely spoke. From him, I learned to write with curiosity, respect, and just enough dark humor to cut the sweetness.
• Sam Parr and Shaan Puri taught me persuasion—the art of making ideas sticky. They showed me how simplicity sells, how personality converts, and how honesty (the well-edited kind) builds trust faster than any call-to-action ever could.
• Rob Johnson taught me how to impress an academic audience. He taught me how to write with precision. From him, I learned that in academia, words aren’t just tools; they’re credentials. You can’t just say something—you have to support, substantiate, and situate it within a theoretical framework. He showed me that clarity doesn’t mean dumbing things down. Also, I learned that if you just sprinkle in phrases like learning outcomes, retention rate, and student-centered learning—and suddenly, you sound like you know what you’re talking about. (Spoiler: sometimes I actually do.)
• And then there’s Dave Barry. God bless Dave Barry. He taught me that humor has gravity—that it’s not a detour from meaning but another road to it. The best jokes don’t just make you laugh—they make you nod in recognition.
• Jerry Burchfield taught me to write with grace and diplomacy. From him, I learned that words can build bridges just as easily as they can burn them—and that choosing the right tone is often more powerful than choosing the right argument. He had a way of softening truth without diluting it, of standing firm without sounding combative.

I didn’t pull my writing style out of thin air. It came from years of trial and error, of writing things nobody read and a few things people did. My voice was built, not born. It’s a patchwork of everything I’ve loved, questioned, underlined, and rewritten. A thousand stories, observations, missteps, and accidental mentors stitched together into one ongoing experiment: me, learning how to say what I mean—and mean it beautifully. Work still in progress.

Here’s what I know

Use the tools if they help. Ask for feedback. Read the writers who shake something loose in you. But never let convenience replace connection. That part has to come from you—your humor, your history, your heartbreak.

It’s half language, half theater—and entirely about understanding your audience.

Because words matter. And how they make people feel? That matters even more.

Oh—and yes. I know the keyboard shortcut for an em dash on a Mac: Option + Shift + Hyphen.

You're welcome. 🙃

Why I’m Still on Facebook (and Why You Should Be Too)

The Case for Connection Over Virality

I know, I know—when most people think of social media these days, Facebook isn’t exactly the first name that pops into their heads. There’s TikTok, Instagram, X, and whatever the next shiny app is that promises to make you “viral” overnight. But here’s the thing: I’m not in this for virality. I’m in this for connection. And for me, Facebook is still the best place to do that.

Real Connection, Not Just Content

When I say connection, I mean the real kind. The kind where you’re not just scrolling past strangers or chasing likes, but actually staying in touch with the people you genuinely care about—your friends, your colleagues, your extended family, the folks who have been part of your life story in some meaningful way. That’s what Facebook does best.

It’s not about pandering to a crowd of strangers (though I admit, there’s a certain thrill in that too). It’s about seeing the lives of people you’ve known for years, sharing in their triumphs and milestones, commenting on their thoughts, and yes, sometimes just laughing at a ridiculous meme they shared.

My Digital Living Room

For me, Facebook has become my digital living room. It’s where I check in on people I don’t see as often as I’d like but still consider important. It’s where we celebrate small victories, support each other during tough times, and yes, occasionally debate over things we don’t agree on—but always from a place of respect.

And I love that. I love that I can scroll through my feed and feel genuinely connected, not just entertained or distracted.

The Joy of Familiar Faces

Now, don’t get me wrong—I also enjoy reaching new people, testing ideas, and sharing content that might resonate beyond my immediate circle. That part of social media—the broadcasting, the growing, the showing off a little—is valid and fun. But it’s the private, quieter joy of connection that keeps me coming back to Facebook as my primary platform.

It’s the difference between shouting into a void and talking to people who actually care to listen.

Staying Where My Heart Is

So yes, while other platforms may promise trendiness or fame, I’m sticking with Facebook. Because here, I see the people I actually know. Here, I can nurture relationships that matter. Here, I can be present in the lives of people who have been present in mine.

And if you’re reading this, yes—you are part of that, and I want you to know how much I value it.

Why It Still Matters

Facebook may not be the new kid on the block, but it’s where the people I love are. And for that reason alone, it should be one of your platforms of choice too. It’s not about chasing the algorithm—it’s about cherishing the connections that enrich our lives.

That’s what keeps me coming back, and that’s why I’ll keep showing up. Because when it comes to real connection, nothing else quite compares.