There’s something mesmerizing about the way the ocean breathes—the tide retreating to unveil a hidden world, then surging forward to reshape everything in its path. I’ve walked those shores, watching the water withdraw, leaving behind shells, forgotten relics, and scars carved into the sand. It’s a quiet magic, this rhythm of ebb and flow, and … Read more

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a writer. It was a hunger, like the pull of the sea, something I couldn’t shake. In fourth grade, I wrote my first “book,” driven by the real-life wonder of finding a horse in my backyard. My grandfather and I approached it with sugar cubes, marveling at our good fortune, until a stranger arrived to take the horse away. I turned the experience into a story, complete with dialogue and—recklessly—one curse word. I expected admiration. Instead, my grandmother frowned, my teacher scolded, and the first spark of my storytelling confidence was snuffed out. I learned then to write in secret, to tuck my stories away like treasure buried beneath the tide.