I discovered the power of words as a child, the moment I learned to read. They remain my most reliable way of making sense of the world. I spend my time somewhere between admiring how other people arrange them and attempting—sometimes successfully—not to completely trip over my own.

I used to write about hiking, but as my knees have aged, my movement has grown quieter—and decidedly less uphill—across cities, through books, and inside memory. The journey is still uneven, but there are no maps now, which means the destinations are occasionally surprising and rarely efficient. This space holds notes from this season of life: dog-eared pages, small detours, and things worth writing down.

Posts are irregular by design. If something here feels familiar or keeps you company for a moment, you’re welcome to linger. Comments are open if you’d like to join the conversation.