When I decided I wanted to write—really write—I knew, deep down, that the corporate world wasn’t where I belonged. I’ve probably always known that I’m not built for corporate America. It feels far too rigid, too serious, and at times, too absorbed in its own systems to leave room for wonder or warmth. That’s not a critique of those who thrive there; it’s just not where my spirit feels at home.
That said, I’m not above wanting financial comfort. I wish for wealth—not to be a walking advertisement for curated luxury or to display a highlight reel of champagne moments—but because the peace of mind that money can buy is real. The freedom to breathe, to choose without panic, to give with intention, and to rest without the weight of survival pressing down—that’s what I long for. Still, I know that wishing isn’t a strategy. Wealth doesn’t come by way of hope alone. It takes effort, vision, and more than a little courage.
And here’s the honest part: I don’t currently write for money. Not really. I don’t work to chase dollars. I write from the inside out—the invisible labor of translating feeling into form, of sitting with discomfort long enough to name it. I write because it’s how I process the world, how I stay anchored, how I try to make meaning. Writing, when it’s not bound by a paycheck or a publishing deal, is often unseen. There’s no applause, no metrics, no instant gratification. But it’s real. It’s constant. And it matters.
The same is true of teaching. As an educator, I bring an eclectic kind of energy—part caregiver, part truth-teller. I listen, I adjust, I improvise. I hold space for young people to think, to stumble, to grow. Teaching, like writing, is intimate work. It demands empathy, flexibility, and a refusal to disengage. It’s not glamorous, but it crackles with life.
So here I am, somewhere in between—part-time educator, full-time writer of quiet things. I exist in the space between practicality and purpose, hustle and heart. It’s not always easy, and it’s rarely lucrative. But it is rooted in meaning.
I believe in story. I believe in the slow, steady power of words. And I believe that the right kind of wealth—creative, soulful, and yes, maybe even financial—will arrive in time.
For now, let me introduce my chapbook, Margins of the Mind.
This collection is a deeply personal exploration of the liminal spaces we inhabit—between roles, between thoughts, between what’s spoken and what’s held back. Rooted in the world of education, these poems reflect the emotional and intellectual labor of teaching, parenting, and advocating within systems that often demand more than they give. Written in the in-between moments—school drop-offs, staff meetings, grading breaks—Margins of the Mind captures the quiet tensions and quiet triumphs of a life lived in service to others while trying to preserve a voice of one’s own.
Whether you’re an educator, a parent, or someone who’s ever felt like you’re living in the margins—of your own story, of societal expectations, or of time itself—this collection is for you.
I’m honored to share it through the care and curation of a small press. Please keep in mind that small-batch printing and independent distribution can mean a longer shipping timeline. Thank you for your patience and for supporting small presses and emerging writers—it truly makes a difference.
More details, sneak peeks, and behind-the-scenes glimpses are coming soon. But for now, I’m proud (and a little nervous) to say: Margins of the Mind is out in the world.
Thank you for reading and walking this journey with me.
The Forty Files 