Hi everyone,

This week, I’m checking in with an exciting opportunity for you to win one of 100 Kindle eBook copies that I’m giving away on Goodreads right now! To celebrate the upcoming release of All That Was Left Unsaid, I wanted to do something massive to give back to the reading community.

I wanted to share this exciting news with you, my subscribers, as a small way of giving back and showing my appreciation for your support on this journey.

The countdown to launch day is officially on, and as a self-published debut author, I’m feeling a mix of pure excitement and nervous energy. All That Was Left Unsaid is officially launching on September 29, 2026.

Because it’s a pool of 100 copies, your chances of winning are incredibly high. Winners will be announced on September 28, 2026.

CLICK HERE TO ENTER THE CONTEST ON GOODREADS

All That Was Left Unsaid traces a woman’s quiet, determined passage toward self‑healing, self‑discovery, and the long‑overdue recognition of who she has always been beneath the noise of her life. It’s the story of a woman learning to mend what was broken, reclaim what was lost, and finally understand the woman she was meant to become.

Secrets. Betrayal. And the woman left to pick up the pieces.

At seventy, Katrina Johnson thought she understood the shape of her life. She was a devoted wife, a mother who did her best, and the keeper of a Victorian farmhouse that had held her family’s joys and sorrows for generations. Then her husband dies—and everything she believed about her marriage begins to unravel.

As grief gives way to long-buried secrets. Katrina faces a devastating medical diagnosis, mounting financial pressure, and the very real possibility of losing the home that defines her past. Old fractures in her family deepen. Her relationship with her daughter remains painfully distant, while her son—caught between loyalty and resentment—attempts to hold together what little remains.

When Katrina is forced to rent out rooms in her farmhouse, the presence of a young tenant unsettles her in ways she can’t ignore, awakening memories and betrayals she thought she had survived that now refuse to stay buried. Katrina now must confront the cost of the choices she made to preserve her marriage.

With the past pressing relentlessly into the present. Katrina must face the life she built through silence and sacrifice—and the parts of herself she left behind. She must decide whether reclaiming herself requires embracing the very wounds that shaped her.

Tender, reflective, and emotionally resonant, this novel explores love, betrayal, identity, and the quiet courage it takes to begin again. It asks a haunting question at the heart of many lives: when so much has been lost, is it still possible to choose yourself?

I’m also incredibly grateful for the wonderful reception All That Was Left Unsaid has received from editorial reviewers. I submitted my book to Readers’ Favorite and IndieReader , and seeing such thoughtful and fabulous reviews feels like a dream come true.

Here are some excerpts from reviews I have received from IndieReader and Readers’ Favorite:

IndieReader Approved Review: “Through an emotionally engaging plot and nuanced characters, Danielle Dragona’s All That Was Left Unsaid elegantly explores the process of discovering the person you want to be and figuring out how to get there.”

★★★★★ Five-Star Review from Readers’ Favorite: “All That Was Left Unsaid by Danielle Dragona is a compelling, heart-rending, and deeply emotional portrayal of love, betrayal, family dynamics, and secrets left untold. . . . an absolutely riveting read. Author Danielle Dragona has crafted a web of twisting, turning secrets and mysteries that slowly unravel as the narrative unfolds. This is a deeply layered story with a wonderfully joyful underlying message. I thoroughly enjoyed and highly recommend it.” - Grant Leishman

★★★★★ Five-Star Review from Readers’ Favorite: “In All That Was Left Unsaid, Danielle Dragona has created complex characters involved in fragile relationships. The plot is intensely charged, and a couple of bombshells are dropped, which threaten to destroy these relationships. The author has a way with words as well, identifying old age as the evening of life and the bucket list as the Love List. This story is about nurturing and valuing all our relationships, no matter their source.” - Donna Stevenson

★★★★★ Five-Star Review from Readers’ Favorite: “All That Was Left Unsaid by Danielle Dragona is a heartfelt story. The book was beautifully written, and the author handled sensitive topics with great care. I enjoyed reading the book and found myself pondering over it.” - Alma Boucher

For so long, I was afraid to share my writing with the world. Seeing others connect with my work has been the most incredible validation and a reminder that perhaps I should’ve taken that leap a long time ago. But I truly believe everything happens when it’s meant to, and I couldn’t be more grateful that the time is finally here.

Whether you win a free copy or not, simply clicking “Enter” adds the book to your Goodreads “Want to Read” list, which helps other readers discover it, too. It takes less than 60 seconds and means the world to an indie author like me.

The giveaway is open for the next month, but don’t wait!

Follow me on your favorite social media platform.

Thank you so much for your incredible support as I launch this dream into the world.

Share Danielle Dragona’s Substack

I absolutely yearn for forty-eight hours in one day. Seriously. I petition the universe daily to heed my distressed prayers which continually fall on deaf ears. Even if there was extra time in a day, I’m certain I still wouldn’t be able to accomplish everything that I want to do.

I’m a type A overachiever whose mind is always in overdrive looking for the next task to complete. I need to be productive to feel somewhat at ease. I wish I could learn to just let myself be, but it doesn’t seem to be in my DNA.

I have two mental lists that are always churning in my head. The first one is a running list of what needs to get done, and the second, more palatable one, consists of things on my wish list that I would love to get done. Even if I did have forty-eight hours to work with, I would probably create more items on my to-do list and still feel every ounce as overwhelmed as I do now. Maybe the gods know this and that’s why they ignore my incessant pleas.

Since there’s no genie or magic lamp nearby to grant my wish, I do my best to get creative with ways to deal with the paltry twenty-four hours I’m offered. That sounds like so much time, but to me, and probably to many other hapless souls on the planet that don’t know how to shut their brains off, I’m sure they share my sentiment. There’s never enough time.

I wear many different hats, juggling the roles of wife, mother, substitute teacher, writer, dog mom, social director and taxi service for my son. I’m also the grocery shopper, laundry lady, bill payer, organizer of the endless toys on the floor, lunch maker, and dishwasher. Trying to whittle out an hour at the end of the night to watch one of my favorite shows without passing out feels like moving mountains.

Attempting to write novels amid all the other things that I need to accomplish daily is not an easy task, but it’s one that’s non-negotiable. No matter what, I make time even if it’s just for a short period.

While learning to relax may not be present in my DNA, writing undoubtedly is. It’s part of my identity at my core and what I think about most of the day in between the mental scanning of those pesky to-do lists. When I find myself buried under the things that need to get done, I often plan how and when I can carve time out to write. I make it happen.

As far as I’m concerned, writing is akin to breathing. It’s something I must do. Without oxygen, we can’t survive, and in my world, writing is that precious air I need to live. The desire to write is a constant and unrelenting urge. I would go so far as to say that it’s an obsession, one that needs to be fed incessantly.

It’s a perpetual underlying pull that I can’t escape, nor would I ever want to. To me, writing isn’t a hobby, something that I pick up now and again when the mood strikes. The desire to create worlds with words is a passion. Writing is comforting. It’s a release of imaginative energy swirling and churning beneath the surface. It’s like breathing. I need to do it.

Occasionally, there are those unfortunate times when I don’t get to write as much as I would like. Life can get busy and it waits for no one. When these moments happen, it messes with me in a big way. Badly.

My mood plummets and I get edgy and irritable. I feel like an addict who desperately needs a taste of their drug of choice. The longing to write becomes more insatiable, and I seriously want to jump out of my skin.

Trying to find the time to complete All That Was Left Unsaid was not easy, but I was determined. Katrina wouldn’t let me give up. She persistently rattled around in my head like an earthquake, inundating me with visions of her and a narrative that wouldn’t quit. She wanted her story unleashed into the world, and I was her guiding force, ushering her journey into the light.

She wouldn’t leave me alone. Even when I was attempting to catch elusive sleep, trying to finally turn my brain off from a busy day, she would talk to me and tell me her story. As exhausted as I was, I listened closely. I didn’t want to miss a thing. That creative passion fuels me. It gives me a sense of artistic purpose and exhilarates me to my core.

By nature, I was never a good sleeper. Ever since I was a kid, I struggled to find the off switch to shut my brain down for the day. Apparently, I was never equipped with such a thing.

With a racing mind in a continuous loop, true rest usually eludes me. I recall some days I was half asleep at my laptop, writing Katrina’s story. Suddenly, I would nod off for a brief second, my eyes heavy with sleep. But I kept on writing.

Katrina became a force I could no longer ignore. As I wrote All That Was Left Unsaid, she kept pressing at the edges of my attention until she finally claimed it, leaving more than a few real-world tasks abandoned in her wake. I had to try to find balance to give her the time she demanded to continually reveal herself to me. Most days, she ultimately won out.

A few years ago, my uncle suffered a tragic accident that left him a quadriplegic. Seeing a once youthful seventy-something year old man confined to a wheelchair is a heartbreaking thing to witness. I remember visiting him many times at his apartment in New York City. He would walk the streets so quickly I had to maintain a slight jog just to keep up with him.

We would explore every hidden corner of his neighborhood, discovering hidden gems and new things he didn’t even know were there. I miss those days badly. They’ll never happen again, and now they’re just wonderful memories that I’ll always cherish.

Sometimes when I go to visit my uncle, I can’t help by think about what I would do if I was ever confronted with such a catastrophic injury. Of course, I would miss the freedom of independence and being able to do things for myself. I also think about my family and how that would impact them, but then, my mind ultimately drifts to writing.

What would I do if I couldn’t use my hands? When that realization seizes me, I’m instantly panic-stricken. How would I write? Immediately, I try to come up with solutions to that harrowing notion, trying to calm the anxiety that wells up inside of me when I think of not being able to write. Hopefully, that never happens.

Trying to find equilibrium as a writer isn’t always easy. For me, it’s a very difficult tightrope to walk. We don’t exist in a vacuum. We have families to care for, jobs to go to, and the normal mundane tasks that come along with being human such as wanting freshly washed underwear and food in the refrigerator.

Does it get stressful at times? Of course. But I wouldn’t trade a single moment of it. The ability to braid one word into another, to shape meaning from language itself, is a gift I cherish more than I can ever articulate. It feeds me. It nourishes me. It’s the quiet force that keeps me moving forward even when the days are tight, the hours are thin, and time refuses to stretch.

And still, I do my best to give my characters the time they deserve, to sit with them, listen to them, and let them unfold. I try just as hard to honor the tasks of life, tending to what needs tending, even as the work of story keeps calling me back.

Share Danielle Dragona’s Substack

Hello everyone!

I’m thrilled to share some exciting updates on the progress of my debut women’s fiction novel, All That Was Left Unsaid, which is set to launch September 29, 2026!

Becoming a published author has been a dream come true, and the experience of bringing my words to life has been nothing short of incredible. While the process has involved a great deal of hard work and dedication to ensure everything is just right, the fulfillment I’ve felt along the way has been truly unmatched. I’m deeply grateful.

At the moment, my marketing whiz, Valerie, and I are putting the finishing touches together for launch day which involves a lot of behind the scenes activity! We’re working on launch promos, my author website, and A+ content along with a myriad of other things that need to be completed to make the launch as smooth as possible.

Also, my book cover was recently updated to feature the Readers’ Favorite badge I received after earning three five-star reviews from their reviewers! It’s such an honor to have this recognition and to be able to proudly display the badge on my cover.

I’m so excited for launch day!

This is the book description featured on the back cover, offering a brief glimpse into the story and what All That Was Left Unsaid is about.

Secrets. Betrayal. And the woman left to pick up the pieces.

At seventy, Katrina Johnson thought she understood the shape of her life. She was a devoted wife, a mother who did her best, and the keeper of a Victorian farmhouse that had held her family’s joys and sorrows for generations. Then her husband dies—and everything she believed about her marriage begins to unravel.

As grief gives way to long-buried secrets, Katrina faces a devastating medical diagnosis, mounting financial pressure, and the very real possibility of losing the home that defines her past. Old fractures in her family deepen. Her relationship with her daughter remains painfully distant, while her son—caught between loyalty and resentment—attempts to hold what little remains together.

When Katrina is forced to rent out rooms in her farmhouse, the presence of a young tenant unsettles her in ways she can’t ignore, awakening memories and betrayals she thought she had survived that now refuse to stay buried. Katrina now must confront the cost of the choices she made to preserve her marriage.

With the past pressing relentlessly into the present, Katrina must face the life she built through silence and sacrifice—and the parts of herself she left behind. She must decide whether reclaiming herself requires embracing the very wounds that shaped her.

Tender, reflective, and emotionally resonant, this novel explores love, betrayal, identity, and the quiet courage it takes to begin again. It asks a haunting question at the heart of many lives: when so much has been lost, is it still possible to choose yourself?

One of the central themes of All That Was Left Unsaid is infidelity and how such a betrayal can unravel a marriage, dissolve trust, and bring buried emotions like anger and resentment to the surface.

The story follows Katrina Johnson, a woman who always dreamed of the fairytale: a loving husband, children, and the classic white picket fence. She met Sam when she was young and idealistic, believing love could overcome anything. But life, as she soon learned, isn’t always a fairytale.

When Sam’s affair with Gloria comes to light, Katrina’s world crumbles. Her heart breaks, her self-confidence is shattered, and the reality of her marriage, once seemingly perfect, proves to be a painful illusion.

Everyone responds to infidelity differently. Some try to rebuild and heal, while others choose to walk away and start over.

If you were in Katrina’s shoes, what would you do?

Here’s a small taste of Chapter Three from All That Was Left Unsaid. The moment everything changes is captured in a powerful scene: Katrina, standing in her kitchen, face-to-face with the proof of betrayal—Gloria, in a purple dress with sunflowers and white stiletto heels.

At once, I’m transported back to the night when the image of what I thought was our perfect family erupted like a raging volcano. We were seated at our dinner table for Sam’s fifty-fifth birthday. The smell of freshly baked lasagna floated through the air like a scrumptious cloud atop our laughter, and the aroma of my spiced apple tea greeted my nose with its irresistible fragrance.

Up until a few months prior, Sam and I were having our fair share of marital issues as well as intermittent difficulties from his untreated PTSD that lingered on, so we decided to restore our love for each other to get our relationship back on track and inject some happiness back into our bond. Except for a few hiccups, which were to be expected, I truly believed we were on the path to regaining what we’d lost.

Filled with a renewed commitment to strengthening our marriage, I anticipated his birthday with such eagerness that year. To that end, I commissioned a surprise gift specially made just for him. I purchased a watch he had been ogling, and had it engraved with the words, “When I met you, time stopped,” with the date of our marriage underneath.

We sang Happy Birthday, and when I went to the counter to cut his birthday cake, instead of placing a slice on his plate, I positioned the box with the sparkling bow on it instead. With zeal, I requested he open it. He unwrapped the dazzling box, his robust hands deftly undoing the multicolored ribbons. As he revealed the treasure, his eyes lit up brighter than a star in a glittering night sky. When he read the engraving, a smile emerged like gold on his face. I fastened the watch on his wrist and kissed his lips, which tasted of red wine.

Just as our celebration was winding down, there was a knock at the door. I opened it with the plate in my hand that housed Sam’s precious present a short time before. A younger woman with luxuriously long brown curly hair and emerald green eyes was on the other side, wearing a little purple dress with sunflowers and white stiletto heels. When I gazed at Sam to discern who this woman could be, his eyes glazed over, and the blood drained from his face, rendering him as white as a ghost.

“Sam, who’s this?” I asked as my eyes searched his, my heart beating out of my chest.

“I’m so sorry, Katrina,” was all he could say, guilt and remorse plastering his face, mixing in one ugly heap.

“Sorry for what?” I gasped, but deep down I knew, and everything I thought was true crashed down around me like meteors striking at my heart.

“Tell her who I am,” the woman bellowed as she shoved herself into our home, the aroma of her cheap perfume gagging me.

“Gloria, what are you doing?” Sam moaned plaintively, and life as we knew it shattered all around us into irreparable pieces.

“You’ve been telling me you were going to leave for years. It’s just excuses after excuses. Be honest with your family. Be honest with yourself,” she shrieked, the veins bulging out of her neck in a fit of rage, her words punching me in the gut, knocking the wind out of me.

“How could you do this to me, Sam, to our family?” I howled as the glass plate that held bliss and love moments earlier slid out of my hand, crashing onto the floor into a million pieces like our life together. My body went numb. “I thought you loved me.”

“I do, Katrina,” he protested, but the words were hollow, and I felt nothing except ice and emptiness.

“You’re such a phony, Sam. He tells me how much he loves me all the time, and how he wants to leave you,” Gloria bellowed, spitting in my face.

Billy shot up out of his chair like a blazing rocket ship. “Get the hell out my house you pathetic whore,” he screamed ominously, in a pitch I never heard before.

“I’m your father’s whore, and he loves every minute of it,” Gloria declared with a caustic snicker.

“Enough, Gloria,” Sam retorted viciously, his eyes ablaze with anger that his secret had been unleashed into the world.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m some submissive and docile woman with no backbone like you tell me she is,” she spewed, her perfectly manicured index finger pointing in my direction. “This is it, Sam. You either make up your mind, or I’m done, and this time I mean it. Oh, and happy birthday. I hope I made it a special one,” she screamed, slamming the door behind her.

My legs buckled, and I fell to my knees in despair, plummeting into the glass shards from the broken plate that sparkled like gems, cutting my skin as I tried to push myself back up. Tears streaked down my face like a raging waterfall. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was drowning, sinking into hell. Disbelief suffocated my brain, disorienting me as I realized what I was living before was a lie. Billy helped me to my feet as Sam sat motionless in his chair, his face expressionless and vacant, a stranger to me now.

Thanks for reading!

I appreciate you all being part of this journey with me. Stay tuned for more updates for All That Was Left Unsaid.

Seven years ago, the protagonist of my debut women’s fiction novel, All That Was Left Unsaid, walked into my head. Katrina Johnson refused to leave until I wrote her story. On September 29, 2026, she’ll finally meet you as I release her into the world. She’s been patiently waiting in the wings on the threshold of her unfolding saga. In a few weeks, her voice will rise.

My method of encountering my characters is as unique as they are. At times, they appear after a sudden burst of inspiration tied to a major life event, or they arrive quietly, tiptoeing around the fringes of my brain, silently waiting for me to discover them.

There’s no precise way for them to show themselves to me, but once they emerge from the shadows, I recognize them. I feel them in my core, humming beneath my skin, and I know they’re relying on me to usher their stories into the world.

After my grandfather passed in May 2019, I was seized by an overwhelming desire to remember the man he was. I pulled out a giant tin of old family pictures, eagerly dumping them out onto the carpet, surrounding myself with happy memories in one hand, and grief in the other.

I devoured them with curiosity. I wanted to trace the moments of his long and memorable time on this earth. He had almost ninety-six rotations around the sun, and it was a well-lived life.

I wanted to track it all, not only the turning points that shaped his life, such as his time in the army during World War II, but also the quieter ones that fade gently into the passing of time.

I wanted to get a sense of him as a whole person, not only as my grandfather, but who he was before I even made my entrance onto this planet. In the depths of that mound of photos, I found the smaller, softer moments, the ones that, piece by piece, built themselves into a vast, undeniable love.

I glimpsed birthday parties for my mother and uncle as children. Photos of family vacations at the Jersey shore, my grandmother cooking her famous Italian dishes in the kitchen, and my grandfather as an apprentice when he just began his forty-five-year journey in the plumbing industry.

I saw pictures of my grandparents holding me as a baby. The joy that was in my grandfather’s eyes brought me a sense of peace amongst the storm of his passing. He was like my second father, and his absence left a shadowy void in my heart.

I realized that behind the fleeting moments captured in photographs, an existence is unfolding as a person weaves their way through the maze of life. One moment builds onto the next in a relentless wave, in essence documenting their life from birth until the final picture they’ll ever take. An entire life is recorded through small moments frozen in time that may not feel significant, but they are.

As I was reminiscing about the memories of my grandfather, in that heap of photos, something found me, something unexpected that I certainly wasn’t planning to encounter. These scattered recollections evoked by the random photos that were tucked away for years gave way to something that was cracking open inside of me.

I began thinking about what really lies behind the moments captured in photographs. People can be smiling, laughing and appearing outwardly happy, but is that truly authentic? Maybe it is, but if it’s not, what’s really going on inside someone’s private world while a photo is snapped?

They could seem cheerful, but their internal universe may be swirling with discontent and pain. It made me realize photos don’t always capture the truth.

Maybe someone just lost a loved one or their dream job. Perhaps they just got divorced or are in massive debt up to their eyeballs. Maybe they are fighting silent battles no one knows about. No one really knows what’s going on inside of someone’s heart. It could be engulfed in a maelstrom while at first glance, the winds seem calm.

In the rawest part of me, something kicked—hard—like a story trying to be born. My brain shot forward on a wild tangent and began piecing together a storyline that ultimately became the premise for All That Was Left Unsaid.

Katrina Johnson introduced herself to me, an older woman in her seventies who had just lost her husband, Sam, after a long and grueling battle with cancer. To desperately keep a connection with him alive, she latches onto a photo album documenting their memories.

The photos trace the arc of their life together—those first electric days when they met and fell in love, the tender arrival of their two children, the sun‑washed garden wedding in Sam’s backyard, the vacations, the ordinary moments, and all the threads that stitched their lives together.

This photo album serves as an anchor for Katrina, as it keeps her tethered to Sam when she misses him so badly, she can barely catch her breath. The images of her and Sam serve as her safe harbor as she gets sucked into a vortex of pain and grief, missing the only man she ever knew.

The photo album becomes a recurring motif throughout the novel. She returns to it again and again as her grief swells. As the obscured secrets she once believed were buried begin rising to the surface, they carry with them heartbreaking truths she never expected.

Katrina notices that the photos in the album capture many instances of apparent happiness between her and Sam, but she also knows there were many moments that were anything but. The illusion of marital bliss, rather than the experience of living it, was a common theme in their marriage.

The tumultuous waves of lies, deceit and infidelity gnawed their way into the fabric of their union, slowly disintegrating the bond that once seemed unshakable. Katrina is a proud woman, and always strives to project an outward image of an idyllic life to those looking in.

My grandfather’s passing, and my need to feel close to him through photographs, gave birth to Katrina and her story. Like me, she searches for an emotional tether to someone she loved, even as the physical connection has been erased by death.

Through the quiet bond formed with the images left behind, both Katrina and I begin to question what truth lives behind those captured moments: the stories held in what was unspoken, and in all that was left unsaid.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a fan of the underdog, that person who has the odds stacked up against them, and somehow figured out a way to triumph over adversity. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had a certain respect for the struggle that can sometimes be life. My childhood wasn’t easy, so I had to learn the art of resilience at an early age.

At times, I’ve been brought to my knees, drowning and writhing in the tsunami of what life has viciously thrown my way. I’ve always been a fighter, nevertheless, and once I catch my breath, that’s when I stare life in the eye, and figure out the lesson it’s attempting to teach me.

Sometimes the message finds me instantaneously, on other occasions, it takes its time. One way or another, it’s there, waiting patiently to be revealed amidst the muck.

I’ve always had an affinity for those who get assailed by life’s periodic chaos. In their battles, I often see myself in humanity’s commonality. I’ve come to realize that no matter who you are, how much money you have or what you’ve accomplished in this world, we’re all the same.

Humanity is the common denominator, and life hunts each of us down at will. It doesn’t discriminate against anyone. Most times when we least expect it, life comes knocking at our door. It’s a truth that’s inescapable in its medley of moments; those ups and downs and flashes in the middle that make up the whole of existence.

As I see it, it’s an unpredictable roller coaster ride from the second we enter this world until the time we take our last breath, but in that wild journey, there’s beauty at its core.

As I’ve matured and reflected on my own personal wars that I’ve fought, I’ve realized that most of my growth occurred on the other side of those battles. In the harshest of moments magnificence can be found. There’s splendor in the struggle if we choose to search for it.

In the darkness, our essence gets smelted and twisted in the heat of transformation, extracting strength we never knew we had to face life head on. It thrashes about, writhing in the pain of change, ultimately forming us into something exquisite if we let the process happen.

The theme of triumph over adversity consistently threads itself through my writing. Since I choose to see the beauty in the struggle of becoming, I imbue that quality in my protagonists. Once they discover their inner power and get up after being knocked down, they fight back. In that clash, they ultimately find themselves.

I delight in creating worlds that give my characters the chance to conquer the odds and emerge victoriously from their misfortunes. They are a reflection of me as they push back against the seemingly random nature of life. Initially, they may be down, but they are never out.

They dig deep inside to discover their strengths and abilities they never knew they had to overcome obstacles that at one time seemed insurmountable. That process isn’t an easy one, but it’s one that’s necessary to extricate themselves from the muck to continually press forward.

To stay stuck interferes with the energy of life. Energy is in constant motion, and staying trapped upends the process. I believe these curveballs that life flings at us are meant to propel us forward, often out of our comfort zones. That’s where true growth and healing happen. Those twists are the gifts I give my protagonists so they can flourish.

There’s a little bit of me in each of my protagonists. I plant small snippets of my own personal struggles into their worlds to get unraveled. They have their own strengths, weaknesses, fears and courage and how they choose to deal with the immense hurdles thrown in their paths is sometimes better than what I would do.

I enjoy observing the choices they make, and how they navigate their emotional landscapes as they try to find answers that most of the time aren’t readily available. Only by moving forward do they ultimately uncover what it is they need to find.

Even though my protagonists contain elements of myself, they are free to make their own choices. Just because we have similarities doesn’t mean they always think like me or do things the way I would. Infusing them with elements of myself is the starting point. I let the story unfold the way it needs to, and a lot of times, it expands in ways I never imagined.

My characters have minds of their own, and often boss me around, telling me what they are going to do instead of me leading the way. The more I write, I’ve learned that I just dictate their stories. They tell me what they need and want.

Frequently, I’ll be at my laptop writing, and suddenly they’ll deliver a thought to me that completely alters the course of their journeys and how I interact with them. I find myself responding out loud as if they are sitting next to me so I can contradict their demands, but ultimately, I allow them to lead the way.

If it’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that when you write, your ego needs to be checked at the door so your characters can show you the way forward.

As they triumph over adversity, I find myself proud of them and all they experienced to get to the point of victory. Watching them fall, yet still finding the courage to move on fulfills me. It reminds me of being a parent witnessing a small child stumble and ultimately succeed as they sit on the sidelines and cheer them along.

As I create my protagonists, I give them elements of what they need to succeed. The rest they find on their own as their journeys unfold. I find comradery with my characters as they share exquisite details of their inner worlds with me. I initially create them, but then they take over and show me who they truly are.

Facing life head on and never quitting is something I live by and so do my characters. Since adversity is a facet of every human life, I want to make my characters and their stories relatable to anyone who reads them. I want my words and my characters to feel like familiar friends, and a place to find solace when the storms of life are brewing.

I believe prevailing through hardships builds inner strength and my protagonists understand that which is why they don’t choose the easy path. They choose liberation, forgiveness, resilience and emotional healing instead.

Share Danielle Dragona’s Substack

Publishing my debut women’s fiction novel, All That Was Left Unsaid, was not a choice that I arrived at lightly. It was a lengthy, and at times, agonizing process that evolved over time. For many years, I fantasized about seeing my words in print. To hold my book in my hands was only something I could dream of.

I yearned for that reality so badly, but there was an obstacle and that barrier was my terrifying fear of unleashing my words into the world. To publish my book, I needed to emerge from the shadows and have the courage to finally be seen.

As a child, I enjoyed keeping journals. I remember a small diary I had with a yellow bird that resembled Tweety emblazoned across the cover. The small metal lock on the side ensured my eight-year-old musings were kept securely tucked away within its pages. The key to that lock was hidden away, never to be discovered by any other hand than my own.

To be expected, back then my writing was so simple and naïve. Big letters scrawled messily across lined pages, sometimes in a diagonal, usually describing my day in a surface level tone that basically ran the gamut of what I did with my friends that day, what I was going to watch on television that night, school, and of course, boys. At times, that diary held my secrets, my fears and my dreams.

As I got older, my journals began to tackle more complex narratives as life naturally grew more complicated as the years unfolded. The childhood naiveté that naturally saturates young brains in the early years of life gave way to massive and buried emotions that needed to be excavated and examined.

The big and messy letters that used to be scrawled across the pages were now replaced with smaller and more controlled letters. These letters moved horizontally across the page with a different kind of messiness that didn’t come from just learning to write a couple years prior.

This chaos came from me having so many thoughts in my head that to get them all down on paper and keep up required my hand to move so quickly that at times my writing would resemble hieroglyphics. I understood it, and that’s all that mattered.

While the messiness endured, something changed, and that was the complexity of the feelings I was unearthing. Events and emotions that were stuffed deep into the recesses of my memory began to push their way up into the light. It was overwhelming and daunting to unload years of silenced and repressed trauma, but it relentlessly thrusted its way to the surface to finally be released.

My journal became my haven. Emotions I was too terrified to utter to anyone, even my therapist, found their way into the hallowed pages. Memories and haunting flashbacks that I debated with my therapist were further dissected for any overlooked nuances in my incessant scribbling. Everything gushed to the surface, and my writing tracked it all.

Those journals hold the bare and exposed essence of who I truly am at my core. It’s my humanity splashed out on the page splattered with my tears. It’s my heart, vulnerable and naked with no social masks obscuring my emotional wounds.

It’s all there laid out bare, and in that disarray and disorder, beauty is found, the exquisiteness of the human condition. We all carry our own pain, some more than others, but it’s universal for every person that breathes and walks on this earth.

As a child, I was conditioned to believe it was best to stay quiet, be a good girl and suffer in silence. I grew up as a people pleaser, learning to smile when I was crying inside. I was always “unique” for lack of a better word, but I was taught that was wrong and that I needed to conform to be accepted, yet I never did fit in even though I tried.

I was insecure and anxious, and kids picked up on that and bullied me. Not only was I made to feel that I was inherently weird, but I also didn’t feel safe at home or out in the world. All that suffering was stuffed under smiles and outwardly pretending everything was okay when it was anything but that.

When it all came to the surface, the cathartic release was liberating, but it was also overwhelming as I sorted through years of unhealed damage. I was so sad for that little girl who carried that burden alone for so long.

As an author, I draw on a lot of my own experience to fuel the worlds I create for my characters. Even though their emotional and life circumstances aren’t exactly my own, there’s a lot of my personal inner world powering theirs.

I feed my characters with both my healed and unhealed trauma and watch them grow as they triumph over their own pain. I notice a lot of myself in my characters, and the few people that know me well enough do as well. It’s inescapable.

The famous piece of advice given to a lot of writers is to write what you know. When you write about things that you’ve experienced, stories take on another dimension, pulsing with authenticity and realistic emotion. Otherwise, that sincerity wouldn’t dwell in the world the author creates for their characters to inhabit.

Stories told from an author’s truth become more believable and tug at your heart because the person writing them endured what their characters are experiencing. That shared experience between character and author is deeply moving and strikes a genuine chord with the reader.

Because my writing holds so much of my heart and lived experience, to feel courageous enough to publish my novel and let it live in the world took a lot of self-reflection and bravery. Even though it was always my dream to be a published author, the fear of rejection and criticism was very real.

But finally, the scales tipped, and the fear of not getting my work out into the world became greater than keeping it hidden. I’m about to take that chance as my debut novel All That Was Left Unsaid launches on September 29, 2026.

I’m proud of myself for getting to this point in my emotional growth. It wasn’t easy, but it has been rewarding. I’m stronger, more self-aware, and most importantly, prepared to take more chances in life instead of playing it safe. I’m willing to roll the dice, and because of that, it’s all been worth it.

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I was never one to believe in coincidence. I’ve always relied on my conviction that things happen for a reason, and sometimes, not until after much reflection, is it one that we understand. As seemingly unrelated events transpire in our lives, in the moment, we often can’t see how those parts fit neatly into an absolute whole.

When we allow ourselves to pause and view the situation objectively, then the explanation for outwardly unconnected experiences usually arrives with precision. After our revelation, we are frequently left scratching our heads, not understanding how we didn’t see the glaringly obvious correlation in the first place.

Periodically, these incidents occur with such perfect synchronicity that what led us from point A to point B is usually unrecognizable, melding effortlessly with our joy as we bask in the blissful glow of our current circumstances, but other times, these events happen, and we are suddenly blindsided.

Our comfortable, but not always emotionally stimulating cocoons are unexpectedly rattled. We are abruptly jolted out of our comfort zone, and left trying to squeeze our way out of the suffocating rubble as our illusions of how we think things should be instantly crumble to ashes.

I’ve walked in both sets of shoes. As anyone would, I much prefer synchronicity over chaos, but what I’ve discovered is we learn so much more when our faith is tested and forged in the fire of discord than when we walk the simpler path of perfect harmony.

As I was in the throes of despair dealing with a publishing company who often forgot I existed, I plummeted into a pit of misery. I couldn’t understand why this was happening. I finally took a chance to put my writing out into the world, and now this was the result.

I did everything they asked of me regarding my manuscript. I promptly returned files with corrections, edits, and whatever else was needed, but getting my project manager to respond to an email, let alone do what was needed to push my book closer to the publication finish line was like moving mountains.

When I first started this process back in April of 2025, I was told that a publication date of July 2025 was feasible considering I already had a developmental edit on my work. I panicked wondering how I was going to complete all of my prelaunch activities within that short window of time. My anxiety was all in vain as that projected publication date faded into nothingness.

July 2025 came and went with no explanation as to why everything came to a screeching halt. No reason was offered and there was no mention of any future release date. It appeared as if my book was floating aimlessly through the black void of space.

I tried relentlessly to push the company along and, if I was lucky, about one out of ten emails were answered, and the response never included what was causing this agonizing delay. I desperately tried to light a fire under them to move the publication process along, but my herculean efforts only resulted in momentum that resembled a snail’s pace at best.

Now finally, after over a year of dealing with holdups and lip service, my book is finally ready to be released into the world with a launch date of September 29, 2026. That date has major significance in my life as it is my father’s birthday.

My father was always my biggest cheerleader in every facet of my life. No matter what, he was a supporting and encouraging force even when it seemed like the odds were stacked up against me. He was always such a comforting, yet motivating influence in my life.

He made me feel like I could achieve anything I set my mind to, and would often say things like, “How bad to you want it?” or “Go the extra mile, there’s never a crowd,” to inspire me to achieve my goals. Another one of his favorites was, “Don’t forget your father when you’re famous.”

I would laugh to myself because up until recently, my fear of pushing my writing out into the universe caused it to languish in the shadows. Forget about famous. How would I even be seen if I was scared to put my words out there? Finally, I took a chance on myself, and I’m glad that I did.

I dedicated All That Was Left Unsaid to my father. He left this earth far too soon. Wherever my book may land, my hope is that for everyone who holds it in their hands to feel that devotion I have for the man that shaped my life for the better.

As I reflect on the tumultuous events that surround the publication of my novel, I now realize that if it wasn’t for all the delays, setbacks and missed deadlines, I wouldn’t have been able to launch on a day that holds such magnitude for me. While the people who read my book will know from the acknowledgements that it’s dedicated to my father, most won’t know that the day it’s officially published will be the day he entered this world many years before.

While the publishing process was nothing short of harrowing, after the dust finally settled, I believed it was divine intervention that allowed for my book to be published on what would have been my father’s 79^th birthday. As I said, I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in the unseen hands of fate working behind the scenes to give life to things that are meant to happen.

Things don’t happen by accident. Divine providence is alive and well and weaves its way into our lives guiding us to situations and events that are designed to help us grow and learn. As I was in emotional upheaval over the fate of my book, I told myself that this disaster had to be leading me to a better place and it did. I just didn’t know what it was at the time.

I get to honor my father in a way that is priceless. Now, the unending love I have for him will be fused with my novel always. Did the road I had to endure to get to this place suck? It sure did, but looking back now, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I thought I may have fallen off the face of the Earth. But I didn’t. Instead, I found myself languishing in an insulated cocoon, shut down, with my creative spirit siphoned greedily from me. My motivation was drained to zero.

I’ve always prided myself on pushing through even when life threw one of its unexpected curveballs my way. At times, even though I may have been down, I wasn’t out, and I always found the time to write and nurture my muse. Writing has gotten me through some of the most difficult times of my life. Now, this curveball knocked me off my game and hit differently.

I believed that my debut, self-published novel, All That Was Left Unsaid, would be published in January 2026. Sadly, that didn’t happen despite all my resolute efforts to make my dream of unleashing my book into the world become a reality.

The company I chose to prepare my novel for publication left me dangling on a precarious and miserable ledge. I had one foot firmly planted in the unwavering desire to push my book down the path to publication no matter the cost, and the other foot lodged in the unpleasant reality that they held all the cards.

No matter how many emails I sent or how many calls I made, all my petulant complaints fell on deaf and unresponsive ears. Deadlines came and went with no communication, just deafening silence. I spent most of my days chasing my project manager down like a lion on the prowl, but all I wanted was my precious book. I was left in the dark.

Sometimes, weeks would go by with no response to my queries. At times I panicked, wondering if this company suddenly bottomed out and went belly up during the excruciating quiet. My book was always on my mind, night and day, and I just couldn’t understand why all this was happening. I was unsettled, anxious, and angry, but the most difficult emotion of all was the powerlessness I felt to do anything about a situation that was completely out of my hands.

At the time, I was just one of probably several hundred anonymous faces attached to a book entrusted to this company by an endless flow of humans with the same dream I had. Even though the passion for this novel filled me up to overflow, to them it clearly was just another book. And more dollar signs. I naively believed that the love I had for this novel would be held with the utmost care to those that I handed it over to, but it wasn’t.

A short time before I started the process of publication, my editor advised me to get a production schedule to get solid dates on when certain phases of the book production process would be complete. When I asked about this, I didn’t get any response. Being naïve and new to this whole process, I just let it go, swept away in the excitement of this new creative journey I was embarking on.

Now, I know that this was a grave mistake. Without anything in writing, they did whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. That was a tough pill to swallow, and a major learning experience.

Sadly, I finally acquiesced, acknowledging I was fighting a losing battle. I was at their mercy. All I could do was sit and wait for them to do what needed to be done to prepare my book to be born into the world. With that heartrending realization, a deluge of true emotional pain consumed me.

As any author knows, the words we write are tethered to our core much in the same way a baby is secured to their mother inside the womb. I wanted so badly to hold my brainchild in my hands. I funneled so much passion and love into this book that to have it teetering somewhere in the stratosphere was unbearable. The grief that consumed me robbed my creative drive. I couldn’t write anything new until I knew that my book would be published.

Before everything came to a screeching halt, I was churning out more written words than I thought I ever did in my life. I was on such a creative high anticipating the arrival of my book. I was writing blog posts, maintaining a consistent presence on social media and Substack, and I was promoting my book to anyone who would listen.

When January came and went and I had no book, my productivity came to a dead stop. I went into hiding, licking my wounds, trying to hold onto hope that one day this book would be complete. My inspiration to write was tied up in anxiety and worry, deadening the desire to do one of the things I loved most in this world.

Another hard truth I had to wrangle with was embarrassment. I had promoted this book heavily to many people with the release date of January 2026. I had so many kind friends and family members read one of the final drafts to offer feedback and suggestions which I valued. They offered reviews I could use on my website, words of encouragement and the support I needed. They posted on social media, promoted my book and were truly happy for me. I appreciated it all, but they were waiting for a book in January, and I couldn’t provide that. I feel like I let them down even though it was out of my hands.

Chained down by my harsh internal critic, it took me years to garner the guts to share my writing with people. I was always inhibited and would often keep my writing hidden away. Making the decision to get this book published wasn’t something I took lightly, but it was time to take a chance on myself and emerge out of the shadows. It took a lot for me to reveal myself through my writing, and with the humiliation of not having a book on the date I projected, it was a ruthless blow.

But now, the wait for my beloved book to make its entrance into the world is finally over. I can say with joy and the utmost confidence that my debut, self-published, women’s fiction novel All That Was Left Unsaid will be launched and available for purchase on September 29, 2026!

I will continue to keep everyone updated and will post regular updates up until launch day and beyond. To say I’m relieved and excited is an understatement. I’m proud of myself that I never gave up on my dream, and now I can share it with all of you.

As a refresher, I would like to share the book description and book cover with you once again. Once it is published, I hope you find the same joy in reading it as I experienced with writing it.

As always, please feel free to share my post. My goal as a writer is to touch as many people as possible with my words. Thank you!

At seventy, Katrina Johnson thought she understood the shape of her life. She was a devoted wife, a mother who did her best, and the keeper of a Victorian farmhouse that had held her family’s joys and sorrows for generations. Then her husband dies—and everything she believed about her marriage begins to unravel.

As grief gives way to long-buried secrets, Katrina faces a devastating medical diagnosis, mounting financial pressure, and the very real possibility of losing the home that defines her past. Old fractures in her family deepen. Her relationship with her daughter remains painfully distant, while her son—caught between loyalty and resentment—attempts to hold what little remains together.

When Katrina is forced to rent out rooms in her farmhouse, the presence of a young tenant unsettles her in ways she can’t ignore, awakening memories and betrayals she thought she had survived that now refuse to stay buried. Katrina now must confront the cost of the choices she made to preserve her marriage.

With the past pressing relentlessly into the present, Katrina must face the life she built through silence and sacrifice—and the parts of herself she left behind. She must decide whether reclaiming herself requires embracing the very wounds that shaped her.

Tender, reflective, and emotionally resonant, this novel explores love, betrayal, identity, and the quiet courage it takes to begin again. It asks a haunting question at the heart of many lives: when so much has been lost, is it still possible to choose yourself?

One day last week, I took my son to the park. As usual, he quickly grew bored and asked to go somewhere new, so we drove a few towns over to a park we’d never visited. The moment we arrived, he found another little boy to play with, and the two of them ran off to the swings together. I settled onto a bench with my book.

After a few minutes, an older woman sat beside me. Our small talk soon shifted into something much heavier, something I wished I hadn’t stumbled into. She told me the boy playing with my son was her son. My surprise must have shown, because she clarified that he was actually her grandson. His mother had died of cancer, she said, and his father struggled with severe addiction. She and her husband had stepped in to raise him.

As we talked, she mentioned the behavior issues he’d been having and casually revealed that she had spanked him a few days earlier. She insisted it was necessary, that maybe if she’d been harder on her own son he might not have gone down the path he did. She believed the little boy, just five years old, needed to “learn his lesson.”

Five years old. That’s an age when children are barely beginning to understand what love is. It shouldn’t be tough—not yet.

Of course this boy was struggling. His mother was gone. His father was lost to addiction. The grief and confusion he must carry are far too heavy for such a small child to comprehend. I imagined the tidal waves of emotion he must feel without the language or support to make sense of them. A child in that kind of pain doesn’t need harshness. The hands that guide him should comfort, not punish.

Her story pierced me in a way I didn’t expect. Spanking isn’t a solution; it teaches that aggression is acceptable, when what he truly needs is connection, patience, and safety. The more I thought about the life he’d been handed, the more my heart fractured. Sadness in one hand, anger in the other, all for a child who had done nothing to deserve any of it.

I gently excused myself, gathered my son, and left. But on the way home, I couldn’t shake the heaviness of that encounter. My reaction felt oversized, yet there it was, pressing down on me like a giant stone. All evening, my thoughts stayed tethered to that child.

Later, I slipped into the bathroom to shower, hoping for a few minutes of privacy. The moment the water hit me, I broke. I cried in deep, silent sobs, unsure why this had struck such a raw nerve. All I knew was that I wanted to scoop that little boy into my arms and protect him. I wanted to shield him from the path I feared he might walk if his tangled emotions weren’t understood and cared for. I wanted him to know he mattered.

I wept for a child I didn’t know. I imagined his loneliness, his loss, the confusion of loving parents who aren’t there. He doesn’t need punishment. He needs to feel seen, held, and guided, not hurt for making mistakes he doesn’t yet know how to process. My grief swelled into anxiety, my chest tight and aching.

The next day, the sorrow didn’t fade. It lingered, gnawing at me, and I knew there had to be a reason. Then it hit me, sharp, sudden, undeniable. That boy’s story had cracked open an old wound of my own.

It brought back the hollow feeling of my childhood—the sense of not being valued, of basic needs met but emotional needs ignored. I grew up feeling invisible. Often, unloved. And in that moment, the old ache returned, that vast, familiar emptiness I had spent years trying to fill.

I saw my alcoholic father who loved to bet on horses at the racetrack, and I remembered my longing for steadiness and constancy. I heard my mother’s criticism instead of acceptance. I felt the loneliness of the little girl I once was, desperate for comfort and connection she never received. That night, I cried for the boy and for her. For the parts of me still waiting to be held.

Though I’ve worked hard to heal my relationship with my parents, the child inside me still searches for what she needed but never got. I try to give it to myself, but it isn’t always easy.

I’ve come far. I’m fifty-two, and proud of the progress I’ve made, but some aches remain, nameless and deep. I do my best to lean in, and accept them. Some are harder to hold than others. They may never totally go away.

Still, I do my best to love that little girl anyway.

I’ve always possessed a desire to help those in need, to make someone’s life a little bit easier, and to leave the world better than I entered it. When I was a little girl, I would fantasize about leaving my mark on society, to make such an indelible change in the fabric of the planet that my name and memory would be talked about and remembered for all eternity.

In my little utopic world, there’s no injustice, everyone is treated fairly, and there’s no room for violence, war, famine or any of the other atrocities we hear about daily. Unfortunately, that isn’t reality.

I’ve always been a sensitive person. Things that others may not give a second thought to tend to stick with me. It seems as if my son is following in my footsteps.

One instance comes to mind when we were at an insect museum at the Jersey Shore when he was in the throes of his bug obsession. As we were inspecting the different stations, we came across a poor little guy that was on his back, inadvertently flipped over, his legs pumping furiously trying to set himself upright again.

My son caught sight of the struggling bug, and he was so fixated on it, worrying if he was in pain, and if anyone would come to help him flip over again. I told him that a museum employee would find the bug eventually and help him get right yet again.

Something inside of me felt bad for this bug, too, and even though I detest bugs, I wish I could’ve reached inside and flipped him over. My son talked about this bug situation periodically for weeks after we returned home from vacation, wondering if he ever went right side up again. Sometimes, months after, he still brings it up.

Before marriage and having a child, I had a lot more free time to volunteer to try to make change in the world. I would help out on Thanksgiving to pack up and deliver meals to those who may not have been able to afford a beautiful dinner. I remember going to veteran homes and volunteering to play games with the residents, volunteering at soup kitchens, clothes and toy drives, protesting things which I perceived as unjust and unfair, and tutoring kids from underserved areas, helping them with their homework and studies.

Because of the shifts in my present life situation, my ability to go off into the world unfettered at a moment’s notice is now not so easy to come by. I felt fulfilled leaving my mark in the world where I could, and I miss that sense of gratitude I received from helping people.

It made me realize that things that I bemoan in my own life aren’t really that bad in the grand scheme of things. That’s not meant to belittle mine or anyone else’s personal experiences, as we still need to feel our feelings and process our emotions, but it put things in perspective for me and took me out of my head, at least for a time.

When my son is a little older, I’ll introduce him to the world of service, so his view of humanity expands, and it can teach him valuable lessons in gratitude, empathy and compassion. I do my best to instill these values in him daily, but there’s something special about stepping out of the usual and venturing into spaces and situations that you wouldn’t ordinarily encounter, that can truly drive the lessons home.

While taking part in grand gestures of supporting others is important, I believe that maybe even the smallest acts of kindness can bring a little bit of relief and luminosity into our increasingly dark world. Even though I do miss journeying out into society to do good, maybe holding the door for someone, or saying good morning pleasantly with a smile, could brighten their day.

I could give sincere compliments to a stranger. I can do favors, volunteer to help someone out, or just be an ear to listen. It would be a welcome change for me instead of always rushing from one thing to the next, often trapped in my proverbial insulated bubble. I can remember that there is more to life than being on an endless, unwinnable quest to get everything off my never-ending to-do list.

One of the biggest things I can do is to raise my son to be a decent and kind human, with a big heart and a conscience. If I can do that, that would be my biggest contribution to the world as we all need those kinds of people on the planet to keep it spinning.

There’s no way to know what someone else is experiencing in life. They may be hanging on precariously by a thread. Maybe they just lost their job, or they recently got divorced. Maybe they lost a loved one or just got diagnosed with a disease.

We have no idea about the sufferings of others. I’m guilty at times of having a huge smile on my face when I’m dying inside. We just don’t know the crosses others bear. The small things can add up in a big way, and a little gesture of kindness may bring someone back from the brink and remind them there’s still goodness in this world.

I’ve spotted a quote many times that says, “In a world where you can be anything, be kind.” Sometimes, I need to take a breath, get out of my head and remember that my son watches everything, and if I want him to grow up to be a decent human, I need continually make the effort to be one myself. In moments when I’m hurried, stressed, angry or sad, I can still be kind, and grateful for everything I have in my life. That can make all the difference to overwhelm the world with little bits of good.

My debut women's fiction novel All That Was Left Unsaid will launch the end of January 2026. I'm so excited to be on this journey, and will share updates with all of you. That for watching and following me as I follow my dream to be a published author!

Amid the hustle of living, having a family, and the stress and anxiety effortlessly chucked around for good measure on the daily by life, at times I tend to overlook how important the people closest to me are, and how much they give to me.

This is unintentional, as sometimes my brain is so addled, I feel as if I’m spinning endlessly on a merry-go-round gone bonkers. In the madness of daily existence, it’s so easy to get wrapped up in the day-to-day bustle that I can lose sight of what truly matters to laser focus on what needs to get done.

Suffocated by the yolk of the never-ending to-do list, the things that mean the most can get shoved to the side in favor of galloping endlessly in the proverbial hamster wheel. This type of living is unsustainable (even though I begrudgingly partake in it) and to-do lists never end, they just get more massive.

Struggling to complete them is the unattainable goal, the nirvana I strive toward of finally “getting done” so I can just sit down and be finished. This never happens as I, in no way, ever achieve that aspiration.

As I continue my journey of gratitude, I desire to be more mindful of all that is given to me on many levels by those in my life and put emphasis on that instead of trying to triumph over unachievable pipe dreams. My family is my life blood, the nucleus of my world from which everything else flows. These people are both blood and chosen family, and I’m grateful for all of them.

We need people. We especially need our tribe, the ones who will love us and support us no matter what and always have our back. Alone, we don’t have the same strength that we do when we both receive and give back to the people who love us. Together, we can do so much.

In my gratitude journey, my goal is to shift my focus off running on the hamster wheel, and to slow down, taking in all my many blessings. Knowing my family is by my side no matter what and loves me for me, wacky quirks and all, means more than anything, even though at times I’m absorbed in my own little world. If I could learn to decelerate, I’m certain that I would feel more fulfilled because those moments of true connection with loved ones truly make life worth living.

So why, then, do I at times neglect to pump the brakes, and persistently sprint from one errand or task to the next, missing opportunities for moments of connection with those I love the most? It could be my type A personality that renders me rigid to a degree with my schedules and things I want to get done.

I’ve always been goal oriented, whether it’s my persistence in personal or creative ambitions, or something more mundane such as crossing off tasks on my chore list. I’m also prone to anxiety and have a one-track mind. When I get something in my brain, I want to complete it, and do not like to be derailed. Also, being a mother to a beautiful five-year-old boy, my time is limited, so I try to cram things in every free moment I have instead of using those instances for something more rewarding.

Please don’t misunderstand, it’s not as if I never settle, and take the time to bond with those I love. That wouldn’t be accurate, because there are many times that I do, but there are also just as many times I don’t. I realize that I could be taking deeper breaths of relaxation than I do with the people I love.

When I’m on my deathbed will it matter more if there was never a dirty dish in my sink for long, or the relationships cultivated with my loved ones? Even though that’s a no brainer, I need to learn to clamp down on my tireless need to be doing something. Tomorrow is never guaranteed to anyone. I strive to restructure my life with that notion as the foundation.

Alone we can do so little, but together we can do so much. Those strong ties with family and loved ones are what will carry us through life and everything it throws at us. When I’m wrapped up in my insulated bubble, I’m not connecting, I’m not present in the moment, and I’m certainly not strengthening the bonds of togetherness. Even though I love those closest to me, just knowing that isn’t enough. Yes, I express it to them, but sometimes it’s the actions more than the words that demonstrate that love.

There are things that I want to do more of, and I’m certain it would be more satisfying than folding laundry, running errands or emptying the dishwasher. Even if I’m exhausted from the day, perhaps when my son asks me to play for the millionth time, I can muster up the energy to have some fun with him one more time.

Maybe when my mother is home in the afternoons (it isn’t often because she’s a social butterfly which is awesome) instead of choosing to get things done I can suggest we go to lunch and catch up on our lives. I can reach out to friends more and sit down with my husband to have a genuine adult conversation about what’s going on in our lives instead of dropping snippets of quick information as we go on autopilot throughout the day.

As Ghandi said, “Be the change you want to see in the world.” I can strive for that, because in essence, we all need each other on this planet, and one person can inject so much positive change into the universe, ushering in the good.

I can also whittle that adage down to the microcosm of my life and be the change I want to see in my own personal world as well. I believe that charity begins at home. Of course it doesn’t end there, but it’s the starting point.

In my journey to gratitude, I want to be continually aware of how my actions and attitudes can bring desired change into my own corner of the earth, and in turn, how that can radiate out into the world.

Good afternoon, everyone!

Before I dive into the heart of this post, I want to express my sincere gratitude for having you as a subscriber to my publication, and welcome any potential new subscribers. I’m fairly confident that fellow wordsmiths can sympathize with the uncertainty that’s occasionally bonded to birthing your heartfelt words into the world. It truly is validating to recognize that others value your writing enough to take time out of their day to read it. So, again, my humble thanks for seeing me.

As you know, I’ve mainly been posting stories about the loss of my father and the heart wrenching void left behind in his absence. Being able to share my overpowering emotions about the crushing loss of my rock and best friend has been therapeutic. It allows me to honor his legacy and the man he was through my memories of him.

So, here’s what I’m excited to share. I’m also an author of longer works. In fact, my first self-published debut novel, All That Was Left Unsaid, is launching in late January. I’m so excited to share this with all of you. This book release is a major milestone in my writing journey, and something I’m very proud of.

Since I was an adolescent, I have yearned to be a published author. Because I never felt “good enough,” I lurked in the misty shadows, writing profusely, but terrified to have my words see the light of day. Always petrified of judgement and criticism, I tucked my words away, keeping them only for myself and very few trusted people. The fear of having my innermost musings on display flooded me with intense feelings of vulnerability and the dread of being exposed.

When I ultimately did muster up the courage to test the waters of the formidable publishing world many years later, I undertook the traditional route, firing out endless streams of query letters to agents in the hopes of securing a publishing deal. When my pipe dreams didn’t come to fruition as I was certain they would, dejected but determined, I completed my second novel.

I attempted to convince myself that this round of queries would be different, and that my agent was sitting at their desk with bated breath anticipating a query from me to the exclusion of all else. I was unwavering in my quest to acquire an agent. To come to the realization that I was searching for a needle in a haystack was a devastating blow. The annoyance of receiving an unceasing torrent of rejections was overwhelming. I was weary of hearing how wonderful my writing was and that I had such a compelling voice, but my subject matter wouldn’t fit their list. My frustration reached its zenith.

I always strayed away from self-publishing because I believed it would be more rewarding and validating to be “chosen.” I believed that if I was picked up by some faceless agent somehow that would mean my writing was legitimate and worthwhile.

I morphed back into a child in gym class consumed by that uncomfortable feeling of waiting to be picked for a team and hoping not to be the last one selected. I got fed up with waiting around to be validated by the impressions others had of me. One day, I just said to myself, “Your writing is meaningful, and it deserves to be seen.” That’s the day I decided to choose myself and double down on that gamble.

I’m proud of my novel. It’s alive with raw energy and clawing to get out into the world. I’m honored to share it with you. Over the coming weeks, I’ll be posting intermittently about different themes I incorporated into the book, the reasons I think those topics are important, and why I wrote it. For now, I’ll share the book description that’ll be included on the back cover so you can get familiar with the premise.

Secrets. Betrayal. And the woman left to pick up the pieces.

At seventy-something, Katrina Johnson thought the hardest part of life was behind her. But after the death of her husband, Sam, she’s blindsided by a devastating web of lies: an affair Sam kept hidden, a secret child, a mysterious loan taken out behind her back, a mountain of debt—and a cherished Victorian farmhouse now slipping through her fingers, teetering on the brink of foreclosure.

As financial ruin creeps closer, Katrina is forced to rent out rooms in the house that holds generations of her family’s stories. But when Abbie, a quiet young woman in her late twenties, moves in, the fragile veil of Katrina’s world begins to tear. Abbie is not just a tenant—she is the living echo of Sam’s betrayal. The living, breathing reminder of everything he hid. Of everything he broke.

As old wounds reopen and new ones form, Katrina must confront the lies that fractured her family and the role she played in its unraveling. With her relationship with her daughter Susan in tatters, her son Billy caught in the crossfire, and a dire cancer prognosis, Katrina is forced to face the question she’s avoided for decades: Who is she, really, when everything she built was based on someone else’s choices? Will she protect the illusions that held her family together—or risk everything to finally uncover the woman she buried beneath the lies.

Powerful, raw, and emotionally gripping, All That Was Left Unsaid is a heart-wrenching journey through love, loss, and one woman’s reckoning with the truth.

Thanks so much for your interest, and for accompanying me on this journey into the unchartered territory of the self-publishing world. I’m looking forward to sharing more with you in the weeks to come!

I genuinely believed I was dying the month before my father’s one year anniversary of his passing. Almost three hundred and sixty-five torturous days from when my world collapsed, and a piece of my heart suddenly vanished.

Every day I was nauseous and had little interest in eating even though I forced myself. My stomach was hollow, a cavern of dread, queasiness the only thing that entered it willingly. My entire body throbbed, and every muscle ached. Fatigue overtook me on most days to the point where I could barely keep my eyes open to function.

I got struck down with the plague, otherwise known as the flu, near the end of January, about six weeks before my father’s anniversary. In early February, I still felt unwell. I called my doctor’s office for a prescription, wondering if I inadvertently acquired a secondary infection, and the medicine didn’t help.

I returned to my doctor after the failed attempt at remedying myself with antibiotics, and was told that it could take a few weeks after the flu to regain full strength. I accepted that, but as February was creeping to a close, I had my doubts that was I was experiencing was still flu related.

Despite the fact I got a full panel blood test for previous issues unrelated to the flu and all was perfect, I still suspected something was dreadfully wrong. I was convinced an unknown and stealthy disease penetrated my body.

I transformed into a Google doctor, researching what conditions could produce the awful symptoms I was experiencing until, on a whim, I decided to explore the signs of grief. Not surprisingly, I was inflicted by every indication of the disease of grief. I learned that heartache after losing a loved one can make a person feel as if they’re dying.

When I discovered this, I was slightly relieved because I ultimately had my answer, but then, that respite was invaded by anxiety with the realization that grief is an affliction that has no cure. There was no vaccine or treatment to make it disappear, to heal my broken heart. The only thing I could do was to sit with my emotions which were overrunning me like a furious flash flood. I was drowning.

The night my father died, I barely cried. The devastation was so profound, I was numb. Every one of my emotional circuits blacked out in an instant to protect me from the ferocious assault on my nervous system. I couldn’t accept the reality that I would never see him or talk to him again, and to defend myself from that truth, I shut down.

Looking back, I didn’t get a chance to fully grieve the most profound loss I ever experienced. In the days after my father died, I instantly jumped into action making funeral arrangements, calling to cancel credit cards, social security, and Medicare, cleaning out his apartment, closing his bank accounts which was a highly complicated process that spanned a couple months and many inept employees, and getting his will into probate at the county courthouse. Most every day after his passing, I was on the run, never getting a chance to truly experience the depth of sadness that was ravaging me.

Once all the necessary tasks were completed for my father, tragedy struck again a short time later. In July, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and in August, she was rushed to the hospital by ambulance with heart failure. The following morning, she went into cardiac arrest, in essence, dying. The morning her heart ceased to beat, the staff at the hospital rushed to revive her. After a couple of shocks from the defibrillator and CPR, she woke up, exhausted and groggy, but cognitively aware, and breathing on her own.

A few hours later, she was eating and attempting to get out of bed, even though the hospital staff admonished her for it. I was informed by the doctors that it’s extremely rare for someone who goes into cardiac arrest to come out of it as rapidly as she did, and with no intubation. I’m confident my father’s hand propelled her back into the physical world just shy of six months after he left this earth knowing I couldn’t endure another devastating loss.

When my mother returned home from her lengthy hospital stay, once again, I jumped into immediate action to assist her with making doctor’s appointments, driving her to the cardiologist, as well as the breast surgeon, arranging oncologist appointments, making calls, driving into New York City for a six-a.m. arrival for a lumpectomy, and picking up medications.

My mother is also not as diligent as my father was with following the doctor’s orders, so I transmuted into a warden of sorts, constantly reminding her of what needed to be done. I also still needed to take care of my son, get things done around the house, and try to find time to breathe and make sense of everything. My head was spinning like a top.

My grief was compounded, snowballing into a tsunami of emotion. Even though I was battling massive anxiety contemplating the fact that my mother was almost taken from me as well, I couldn’t process my feelings since the shock of almost losing her so soon after my father rendered me anesthetized yet again. I couldn’t feel anything, and I didn’t want to. I was hollow.

After I discovered the sickness around the time of my father’s one-year anniversary wasn’t from the flu or the aftereffects of it, I realized the grief I had been hauling around for almost a year finally broke through my internal flood gates. It wanted to be acknowledged, understood, and felt. I had no choice but to surrender to its power. It was too formidable to fight. It consumed me. Ultimately, I relinquished myself to my pain.

I allowed myself to experience the feelings that had been thrashing around my body undetected because I was too deadened to recognize them. I capitulated to their dominance, and I was able to face the festering pain that so desperately needed to be sorted out. It ripped through me, tearing me apart, not stopping until it was unleashed to the surface. I finally needed to experience my pain I was too afraid to acknowledge. I couldn’t run from it any longer.

In November 2003, my father was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. When it was revealed that it was stage four, that was a virtual death sentence, especially over twenty years ago when the treatments weren’t as advanced as they are presently. Also, given the location of the esophagus near vital organs, it can spread quickly.

The cancer crept into his body seemingly out of the blue. For a few weeks he had worse indigestion than usual. My father was known for massive burps that could shatter an eardrum, and for living on antacids in his younger years, but little did he know all that reflux was slowly, but stealthily, eroding his insides.

He thought he had some kind of stomach bug, and I know the thought of cancer never even penetrated his mind. One day he couldn’t eat anymore, and the food just got stuck. He went to his primary care physician who ordered various blood tests to decipher what was going on. His red blood cell count was abnormally low. While many doctors would’ve dismissed that as potential anemia or some other similar malady, Dad’s doctor was compelled to investigate further.

He referred him to a gastroenterologist for an endoscopy and colonoscopy to make sure there was no internal bleeding, and that’s when the disease was unearthed. The endoscopy revealed his esophagus was destroyed by cancer. It was discolored, diseased and ripped to shreds by the invading tumor.

The gastroenterologist sent Dad to different surgeons to attempt to cut out the monster raging through his body. The surgeons acknowledged the cancer had spread and surgery wouldn’t get all of it. Also, it was noted that this was a highly invasive procedure. Dad wouldn’t be able to eat properly anymore because in essence, most of his esophagus would be cut out. He would also have to sleep sitting up for the rest of his life and eat very small portions which never would’ve sat well with him.

Family members also did their own research, hunting for doctors who could potentially help as time was clearly not on our side. I recall for a couple of weeks my family would pile into the minivan, traveling from doctor to doctor, taking heed of their dire prognoses as the grim realization pummeled our brains that the chances of my father rebounding from this demon that invaded his body were slim to none. Then my aunt got a referral to a highly recommended oncologist that a friend of hers knew about, and the ominous clouds that appeared to be trailing us began to part, just a little.

I recollect on the day of the appointment the whole family gathered in the office, waiting for the doctor’s arrival and wondering if he, too, would bestow my father’s death sentence upon us. When he appeared, I was expecting to see an older physician with years of unbounded experience that could save my father’s life, but instead, a young doctor entered the room with a fresh face and upbeat outlook that was sorely lacking from the other specialists we encountered. He painstakingly scrutinized my dad’s records and images, then when he was finished, he looked at us and said, “Joe, I think I can help you.”

I didn’t know if he truly cared about trying to help my father because it was the human thing to do, or if he was just a young doctor willing to pull out all the stops to try to make a name for himself and advance upward in the world of cancer treatment, but I didn’t care. I just wanted someone to try to save my father. He was only fifty-six years old and had so much life left in him. He couldn’t die.

I pulled my dad aside and pleaded with him to give the minivan a rest from driving from physician to physician and just trust that this doctor could help him. I told him that I got a good feeling in my bones that this is the doctor for us. My dad complied, and his difficult journey began.

The oncologist slammed my dad with the dosage of chemotherapy that would usually be given to a healthy twenty-something male, but he took it all courageously, even though he was terrified. Luckily my father took care of himself. He didn’t drink or smoke. He was a vegetarian and went to the gym almost every day. If it wasn’t for that, I truly don’t believe he would’ve made it out of this nightmare alive because his body wouldn’t have been able to withstand the treatment protocol.

Through all the sickness, extreme weight loss, exhaustion, vomiting, endless tests, radiation and chemotherapy, and amidst all the fear, anxiety and sadness, my father never complained once. He never lost his temper with anyone, which would’ve been understandable given the circumstances, and he remained composed and collected. He took it on the chin as best he could. I don’t know where I heard it, but I told him about a quote I recalled that sickness is God’s way of looking for attention. He took that to heart, and his faith grew.

Whereas chemotherapy usually renders someone down for the count, my father was still going to the racetrack and to work as a bartender even as the poison was being furiously pumped into the port in his chest. I recall telling him to slow down, and to rest, but he said, “Cancer isn’t going to get me,” and he continued to go about his daily routines even though that was undoubtedly taking every ounce of strength that he could muster.

I was so amazed by my father and honored to be his daughter. Ever since I was a little girl, he was my hero, but now he was taking on superhuman qualities in the face of his potential demise. His resolve astounded me, and his tenacity to beat a stage four cancer virtual death sentence was beyond belief.

Throughout my life he would impart maxims to me such as, “count your blessings, not your problems,” “keep the faith,” “sometimes you have to take life on the chin,” “there’s a solution to every problem,” and so many countless others. Now, I was seeing him live those words, and I couldn’t have been prouder.

Periodic testing throughout the treatment indicated that it was working, and the cancer was responding. Then finally, the day came when I could finally breathe again, when the doctor revealed that dad was in remission. The oncologist was even amazed at how well my dad responded to the treatment. He was expecting to win him a few more years of life, but he ended up giving him an extra twenty.

Dad would tell me stories about when he would go to follow-up appointments for checkups which spanned the rest of his life. In so many words, the doctor would allude to the fact that he couldn’t believe my dad was still on this planet twenty years later after the severity of his original diagnosis, alive and full of life. Because of the bond that was forged over the years between them, when my father passed, the doctor called my family to express his sadness. I wouldn’t doubt my father was one of his most memorable patients.

That day we found out dad was in remission was November 12^th, 2004. Every year, we would go to dinner to honor that day and never forget how blessed he was. This year, he wasn’t here to commemorate the day we were told he would live. Despite my heart being heavy, I treated myself to lunch and had a glass of wine in his honor. Even though I’m not the most religious person, I went to church to celebrate him in his favorite place to be.

Any amount of time with my father wouldn’t have been enough, however I’m grateful for the extra two decades I did get. Dad was at my wedding, walked me down the aisle, and we shared a beautiful dance to, “I Loved Her First.” He was able to meet his grandson and spend almost four precious years with him that he will never forget. We had many birthdays, holidays and family celebrations, and we were able to embark on many more of our famous day trips that we both loved.

I’ll cherish those memories for as long as I breathe. Even though my father isn’t with me any longer physically, I feel his presence, and know that for as long as I live, he won’t be far away. He’s never far from my mind, and lives in my heart. There, he will always be.

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While I’m not the most religious person, that church still holds much significance for me as it marked some of the defining moments of my life. It’s the church that shared the grounds with the now defunct Catholic school I attended from kindergarten through the eighth grade. It’s where I made all my sacraments, unwittingly being ushered into the Catholic faith. In this church, I sang carols in the student choir for the Christmas Eve mass, and the children would also recreate the nativity. The year I was chosen to play the part of Mary was one of the highlights of my young life.

My father loved watching me sing and would boisterously belt out some of those carols out of the blue, forty years later, at the most random of times. I was married in this church. My father glowed with pride as he walked me proudly down the aisle as the notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D enveloped us like warm raindrops, our arms locked together in love. This church was also where family members and friends were honored after their passing through remembrance of happier times and mourning the loss of their earthly presence. Now, this was the church where I would be reminded that my father was gone.

As I arrived at the mass, I immediately experienced a sense of dread, as once again, the realization that my father was no longer anywhere on this planet cut me to my core. I scanned the people in attendance. Some appeared unfazed about the gravity of the evening mass, laughing and talking as if they were speaking about the latest episode of their favorite television series, while others were tearful, nestled in the arms of those who accompanied them. I was somewhere between the halfway point of levity and misery.

To the left of my pew, rows of pillar candles were lined up in alphabetical order, each inscribed with the name of the deceased person that was being honored which would later be offered as a tribute to those in attendance. As the mass commenced, I gazed intently at the glowing candles, the essence of each recollected spirit encased in a radiant flame.

I couldn’t help but think that the entirety of my father, his quirky jokester personality, his ceaseless love for life and family, his obsession with the racetrack and the craps table, all of his moments on this planet from the day he was born until the time he took his last breath, were now reduced to that of a candle flame, flickering amid a throng of others who have gone before.

Suddenly, my brain was submerged with questions I never even thought to ask my father while he was alive, but now seemed of the utmost importance. Things such as how old he was when he had his first beer, when was the first time he flew on an airplane, or if there was anything in his life he wished he would’ve done differently, now held incredible significance to me because I knew that I could never get that answer.

To be honest, it never dawned on me to ask certain things as they didn’t seem too important at the time. We were busy living our lives together and making beautiful memories in the moment, but now, I recognize there was so much I didn’t realize about my father. I want to know every detail about him, like why he had such a fascination with crossword puzzles, and if he had a favorite animal.

Things that are seemingly meaningless are now burning a hole through my brain. At this point, it’s too late. I ran out of time the day he vanished from the planet. As I stared at his dancing candle flame, I tried to accept the fact that I missed my chance to ask him every question about what made him who he was.

I always viewed my father as a very remarkable man. His approach to life, the way he conducted himself with both strength and kindness, his ability to handle any obstacle that came his way, and his ceaseless appetite for adventure, were always things I wanted to emulate. Things that appeared to come so easy to him I would often find myself struggling with. I admired the person he was and wanted to be more like him. He was my hero, and countless times, when confronted with challenging circumstances in my life, I would always turn to my father for help or ponder how he would handle the situation. He was the calm in my crazy, never judgmental or critical, and always had my back. Now, all of that is just a memory glistening in a candle flame.

Although I crave my father’s human presence, continually guiding and loving me, I’m grateful for the fifty years I was fortunate to be his daughter. I’m thankful for the candle I was gifted in his honor. It reminds me of how brightly he shined in his life, lighting the path for me, as well as those he loved, and the cheerfulness and optimism he so freely shared with others. So, while through the eyes of mourning I feel as if his life was reduced to a candle flame, within my heart, that glow is a reminder of all the radiance he shared with the world.

I’m uncertain if it’s the way my brain is wired, or human nature to a degree, but it’s not easy for me to reliably reside in the brilliant realm of gratitude. When I catch those moments, joy makes its home in my heart, but so many things can pilfer that feeling in an instant. Things like disagreements with loved ones, things not going the way I had planned, getting stuck in gridlock when I’m already late, or someone cutting me off on the highway, and flipping me the bird, can steal me away from vital serenity.

This scenario is far more familiar to me than living unfettered by the idiosyncrasies of life even though I try my hardest to anchor myself to gratefulness. Often, I find myself wondering why it is trickier for me to grasp onto the magnificent sensation of gratitude on a continual basis than it is for me to sink into frustration because things may not be going the way I had hoped. When something happens that I deem aggravating, upsetting or fear provoking, all it takes is one thought from my spiraling brain to yank me away from tranquility as I venture off into that dark corner of my mind that stews in discontent.

Once those thoughts take hold, it’s difficult to break them as they manifest a life of their own. When they begin their incessant yammering, my body follows suit tensing up and blocking my heart from the nourishment that gratitude so freely provides if I just allow her into my life even when it’s not easy. For me to throw a lifeline to the part of my brain that’s drowning is exceedingly challenging as I swirl in the maelstrom of disconnection.

Gratitude places me in a field of plentitude and peace which is exactly where I want to be. It’s baffling to me why it would be so hard to keep myself there and make this a constant state of being. This is the age-old dilemma I’ve been grappling with. I often ponder if others encounter similar struggles, or if they’re even aware that their minds may be mired down in muck as it can easily become someone’s natural way of thinking if they aren’t aware of the messages they are feeding themselves.

Given that authors make millions of dollars from books on the topic of mindfulness, and the power of positive thinking, I’m willing to venture that I’m not the only one who struggles in this area. In some way, we must be getting some kind of payoff for not allowing gratitude into our lives more frequently and instead permitting ourselves to sink into the quicksand of negativity. What payoff would be massive enough to keep us separated from peace of mind and happiness? To unearth the answer to that question requires an excavating dig into the deepest recesses of who we are.

By nature, I’ve always been a thinker and an analyzer. Even as a child, I would drive my mother bonkers with incessant questions about everything under the sun. Maybe that unrelenting inquisitiveness and curiosity, while admirable in many respects, can also be a detriment because nothing can be taken at face value if one is always searching for the reasons why.

In my journeys through life, I’ve encountered people that possess a great attitude, choosing to focus on the good over the things that may not be so good. Occasionally, I’ve asked how they manage to always stay so positive, so optimistic about their lives, especially when they’re encountering major challenges. One of these people was my father. Diagnosed with stage four esophageal cancer over twenty years ago when the advancements in treatment were archaic compared to today, he didn’t let it get him down.

Naturally, he was afraid, angry and despondent at why this fate befell him, but his hopefulness, determination, and persistence tipped the scales in his favor, outweighing the discouraging emotions that sought to take him down. He snubbed defeat and refused to crumble. That attitude saved his life.

He focused on the good and fought, carrying himself with such grace and dignity even in the face of that colossal challenge. He said that overcoming life’s trials was all about mindset, and that we’re the captains of our own ship. Nothing was going to knock him down and he was going to live his life the way he always had, and he did, surviving his diagnosis against all odds. Even the doctors were amazed. When he was faced with almost certain death, he chose life.

When things don’t go the way I’ve planned, I’m often fixated on what’s going wrong instead of focusing on what’s going right. That frustrates me endlessly. I’ve been blessed with so much. I want to understand why my mind immediately goes to what I don’t want, or what I don’t have, instead of all that I do. I want to shift my mindset from a mentality of lack to one of abundance, and with that change, I’m certain I would feel so much lighter, freer and peaceful.

I was raised in a home that was hypercritical and judgmental. I never felt like I was enough, and because of that, I was always searching for validation from those around me. From a young age, I was conditioned to emphasize things I wasn’t happy with instead of the things I was. Although as a child I knew my family loved me, it was often overshadowed by the fierce force of disapproving and disparaging words that shaped my attitude about myself and my world.

Since my parents divorced when I was young, I didn’t live with my father, thus minimizing access to his positive influence on a continual basis. What I learned from him, however, transformed into that small voice which lives in the back of my mind, screaming to be heard, wanting to guide, encourage, and hold space for me. The echo of my father constantly reminds me of all the good in the world, and in myself. I want to usher that voice into the forefront of my awareness, and give it the care it deserves, allowing it to overthrow that which no longer serves me because I am enough.

What are some ways you are able to keep the mindset of gratitude even when things aren’t going the way you planned or hoped?

At four years old, I was too small to be as viciously enraged from the deception as I would ultimately become as an adolescent and young adult. At that moment, I just wanted my daddy. Nothing else mattered. What arose in my father’s absence was a tormenting and dreadful void, a chunk of my heart vanishing into thin air. Time ceased. All I could think about was my father. Where was he? What was he doing? Would I ever see him again? Did he forget about me? All these questions slashed my brain into shattered fragments that were never whole again. He was the first man I ever loved, and now he was gone.

Instances that were previously predictable and insignificant now held substantial importance and magnitude. Things I never previously contemplated now flooded my terrified body that was suffocating under the monstrous weight of heart wrenching loss. I never questioned if I would see my father. I never had to worry about it. Now he was gone, and that agonizing ache crushed me to my core.

The unbearable loss at such a young age, coupled with the devastation and trauma of not being adequately prepared for this life altering event, rewired my little brain from a realm of security to one of distrust and constant vigilance. It no longer was safe to trust. If my father could leave without warning, what other maladies could potentially befall me? The possibilities my imagination crafted were limitless.

When my father left, this defining moment in my young life propelled me into a whole new universe of which I wanted no part. Suddenly, the intimate landscape of my private world mutated into something that was foreign and unrecognizable. Not only was I lost, but I was also stripped of my perception of safety. My innocence was annihilated, and my pure inclination toward faith and security was obliterated. I realized I needed to keep my guard up and not rely on anything or anyone because nothing seemed dependable any longer. I believed the second I let myself trust, the rug would be pulled out from me. I wasn’t willing to take the chance of my world being toppled yet again.

Impenetrable walls shot up around my heart like bullets from a drawn gun. Unknowingly created to provide me with an illusion of protection, as a child, I didn’t possess the awareness to create them purposefully. It was done out of innate necessity. The fortifications I constructed were a natural outgrowth of the pain. I just needed to survive and suppress the grief.

My tiny brain whispered that it must’ve been my fault that my father had left. I must’ve done something horrible to bring this unspeakable calamity onto myself. Or worse yet, maybe I just wasn’t good enough to stick around for. I deemed myself unworthy and not lovable. Why else would he leave me? If I was worth it, there would’ve been no way this would’ve happened. I blamed myself.

At the time of the divorce, my father gambled excessively. Craps and betting horses were his wagers of choice. At the family party after my baptism, my grandfather used the restroom and discovered my father and his friends playing craps on the bathroom floor. I recall a picture of me placed on a table at the restaurant in my christening outfit, positioned perfectly next to a spread-out deck of cards and red dice.

My father was also an alcoholic. His extreme drinking put a massive strain on the already tenuous marriage. The breaking point came when one night, my father and his friends drank so much, they impulsively hopped a flight to Puerto Rico. My mother was enraged, and the marriage collapsed.

After the divorce, everyone around me moved on with life apparently reasoning that the best course of action would be to pretend the loss didn’t occur. Maybe by not talking about it they thought I would forget, but the chasm in my heart only grew fiercer.

Instead of being comforted, I morphed into the comforter. My mother was devastated by the split. She was twenty-seven years old with a four-year-old child and no job, saddled with a house she couldn’t pay for. I agonized that if she didn’t figure life out soon that she would be my next loss, burdened with responsibilities maybe she just didn’t want. I incessantly checked in on her to gauge her emotional temperature, but didn’t do the same for myself. That behavior stalked me into adulthood. I learned how to read the room at a very early age.

A few years later in early elementary school, bullying began. This minimized my self-worth even further by reinforcing my conviction that not only was I unlovable, but evidently, I was unlikeable as well. I always felt different than the other kids, like I was concealing a terrible secret that I was an awful child for making my father leave. Anxiety was my constant and reliable companion.

About a decade later, my father got sober and reigned in his gambling. I dubbed it controlled chaos as our little joke. I remember my mother would say that my father was now like night and day, and unfortunately, she fell in love with him during his night. His life transformed, and ultimately, our relationship blossomed, but that little girl inside of me was still mired in pain. Even though he changed into the man I always hoped he would be, the damage to my psyche was already accomplished. The self-deprecation ran deep, and its razor-sharp talons held me prisoner.

As an adult, the armor I craved for my survival during childhood backfired, and I found myself isolated and lonely, fearful of vulnerability and true closeness. Even in a packed room, I felt alone, my forced smile and buoyant banter shielding the little girl who was afraid of the world. I grew up believing I was less than, and that I certainly wasn’t good enough to stick around for. That belief swung the door of the universe wide open and invited into my world much that wasn’t desirable for me.

What I ultimately attracted into my life resonated effortlessly with the damaging vibe I was radiating into the world. I became a people-pleaser, saying yes, when my soul was screaming no. I was terrified of abandonment, and just wanted to be accepted. For a time, I nearly sold my soul in pursuit of that goal, inserting myself into situations that weren’t good for me, just wanting to be loved. Searching for validation became a powerful addiction. I lost myself, not knowing I had the power all along to love myself instead. While thankfully there’s been a lot of internal healing and soul searching, a lot of times, I still struggle.

When my father died, I transformed into that little girl who just yearned to be with her dad. In the early days of his passing, once again, I felt as if I was sucking in my breath, longing to see him. I wanted to be with him so badly that nothing else mattered. Now, there will be no next time, and that little girl is crushed by the loss all over again.

Dad was behaving strangely the evening before, firing off disjointed texts about me taking hold of his bank accounts, and where I could find his debit card, saying it would be mine in the future. Those words hurled shivers down my spine. I responded that he was scaring me, like he didn’t believe he would be coming home. I never got a response.

With those cryptic messages rattling around in my brain, I embarked on the forty-five-minute journey to the hospital. When I arrived, the man that I witnessed was not the person I equated with my father and hadn’t been for some time. He appeared confused and exceptionally thin, as if whatever life his body still grasped for was being siphoned out of him. When he saw me, he smiled. I smiled back, but inside, I was crying, knowing he had descended further on a downward spiral of no seeming respite since just the day before.

“How are you doing, Dad?” I asked awkwardly, even though the answer was apparent. Yet, in my father’s typical upbeat fashion that was a staple of his temperament, he pepped up for a second as he nodded his head indicating he was okay, but I knew that was a lie. He didn’t want me to worry, but I was far past that point.

Even though Dad didn’t speak much, I regaled him with tales about my son, his beloved grandson, struggling to inject happiness into his fading spirit. He smiled faintly as he listened to my stories, but most of the time, we sat in silence. Dad would fight to keep his eyes open as weakness and exhaustion assailed him. When his eyes closed, I gazed at him, wondering if he would ever be able to come home, and if he did, would he ever be the same again.

Occasionally, his nurse would appear to ensure all was well, and even though he was hauling the heavy yolk of his mortality, he was polite, smiling feebly, and squeaking out a barely perceptible thank you to her. Until the very end, my father was kind even when he had every reason not to be. I clutched onto those moments like exquisite pearls as they fed into my ravenous denial that my father would soon be back to himself, and this horror would be a faraway memory.

Dad broke the stillness between us like glass, and whispered, “I’m starting to get disoriented,” as sepsis ravaged his body. My heart was cleaved to the core. I wanted my father back. I couldn’t reconcile the man I knew as my father to the one wasting away before my eyes. Watching a loved one die is something I’ll never forget. The pain is palpable. My heart broke. He didn’t deserve this fate. Why was this happening?

While Dad slept, I lingered by his bedside. At that time, I was in the throes of potty training my son who was then three years old. I bolstered my defiance of dad’s circumstances further as I scanned Amazon for training underwear for my son, struggling to take my mind off my pain. I reasoned that maybe if I engage in a routine task, things will revert to normal which couldn’t have been further from the truth. Having decided on Lightening McQueen, I purchased a pack of underwear. Even though my son outgrew them a while ago, I saved a couple pairs as a reminder of the last day I saw my father alive.

Since Dad was napping, I decided to leave. I know he hadn’t been sleeping well, and even though I desperately wanted to say goodbye, I didn’t want to wake him and steal precious moments of slumber. As I was collecting my things, Dad’s eyes opened, and relief washed over me like a soft summer rain. I apologized for waking him up. He didn’t answer. He could barely keep his eyes open, yet he managed to smile.

Every time I visited my dad, when I left, the last thing I would say was that I loved him. That was the most important thing to me, that he knew the depths of my love for him, something that platitudes, such as “everything is going to be fine,” or “you’ll be better soon,” would never convey even though I wanted to believe those things so badly. He always responded that he loved me, too, but on this day, he just couldn’t find the strength.

What he did though was something that meant so much more and was something he always did. Whenever we would see each other, or upon parting ways, we would usually embrace, and then he would follow that up with a fist bump, saying something like, “see you later, dude.” My father was a jokester by nature, with the soul of a perpetual child, and a wild sense of humor to boot.

The final day I saw my father, he granted me that proverbial fist bump, as if to reassure me that while his body was dying, his spirit, the person he was, was still very alive. Even though he was slowly fading away, his internal flame burned brightly. Up until the end, my father was resilient, even in the face of death.

With the last memory I have of my father, I perceived him as his quintessential self, although the signs of his demise were lurking all around us. He wanted to live. He was always a fighter. The gratitude I harbor for that final moment with him is beyond anything words can describe. It’s as if he said to death that day, “you can take my body, but you’ll never take my spirit.” I’m so thankful he woke up from his sleep, and that despite the fact he was clearly passing on, he wanted me to know that he was still there with me at that precious moment.

Random, misguided comments that may have rolled off the backs of other children stung me and stuck like crazy glue. My brain was continually in overdrive, and typically, my thoughts echoed the same disparaging voices I heeded persistently, not only from unmindful family members, but also from other kids in school, and around town, that made me want to shrink away into the ether. I wasn’t gentle with myself and was often harsher than the voices that were programmed in my head through endless repetition.

Being subjected to my fair share of criticism and disapproval from my maternal side of the family because I naturally marched to the beat of my own drum and didn’t follow direction well, as a young person, I internalized it all. This wasn’t done from lack of love on the part of my family. It was done from a lack of understanding of the power words have to both hurt and heal and from an absence of intentionality with those words.

As a parent now, I’m making sure I learned from that transgression. Since I now know better, I want to be better for my son. I never want him to suffer the emotional isolation of perpetually feeling less than even if it was done inadvertently like it was to me. Loving a child is one of life’s best experiences. The power of that love transcends time and space, but that love isn’t enough. It is possible to love someone, but damage them as well. I want to be aware of my words, knowing the life they take on, and the power they possess.

I didn’t have maturity at that time to understand that opinions are just that, and not irrevocable truths. Essentially, I didn’t hold the wisdom to recognize that I didn’t have to fit the mold of how others thought I should be. Consequently, I was always searching for approval, not only from my family, but from the outside world so I could feel like I was okay, not realizing I already was. Because of that endless quest for validation, I gave away a lot of my power to people who often didn’t deserve it. I found myself in situations with people that I shouldn’t have been in, and for far longer than I needed to be. It was so hard for me to let go.

That unceasing pursuit spanned many years. In that time, I learned to be small, and afraid to go against the grain, hence spawning a vicious battle with my inherently fiery and independent self. I deemed it dangerous to unleash that part of myself into the world for fear of not being accepted or understood and ridiculed. Being a natural creative, this can cause a major problem, as creativity thrives on uniqueness, novelty and innovation. Hence, I was stunted artistically for many years, preferring to utilize my creativity for trying to solve other people’s personal dramas and issues, and not paying attention to my own. I felt safer, yet tormented, being small, but safety doesn’t equate to fulfillment and emotional peace.

My wingspan shrunk, I was hunched, crouching in the corner of existence. Occasionally, I would dip my toes in the waters of life but would ultimately retreat to safety. The idea of people witnessing my authentic self was terrifying whether it be artistically or personally. I pursued my creative passions, but within precise parameters that I believed innocuous. I allowed my genuine self out into the world to an extent, often receding when it appeared as if my thoughts, views or opinions would stir the pot to overflow, and I would be targeted by others like when I was a child.

As time marched on unfettered, I recognized that it’s okay to be who I was meant to be. I’m permitted to possess my own thoughts and opinions as we all are, and people are allowed to not agree with me if they choose. I’ve learned that not everyone needs to like me as I’m not required to like everyone either, but we do need to respect each other. I discovered that some people are meant to be in your life until the end, others just for a season, and that I don’t need to hold onto everyone. I can let them go, and they can let me go as well. I’ll be okay either way.

When I’m done with being small, and I release my wingspan to its full potential by being true to myself, that’s when the magic happens, yet simultaneously, I also experience the fear of not being accepted, exposed or good enough. Now, I put myself out there anyway. When my authentic self flows out into the world, whether it be personally or artistically, that’s when the possibility arises for greatness.

Nevertheless, with so many years of indoctrination into the mindset of minuteness, this search for authenticity is a daily work in progress. Some days, I experience the old inclination to hunch and retreat. Some days I give into it, other days I fight for my truth. Other times, I’m fierce, and nothing can get in the way of me stepping into my power. Like anything in life, things ebb and flow, but I can’t lose sight of the goal.

I no longer need to listen to old programming I received long ago, those negative messages that would go around and around in my brain like a merry-go-round gone mad can now be replaced by positive messaging of self-love. I don’t need to hide. Even though that little girl is still inside me, I don’t need to subject her to more pain by continuing the cycle. I can be kind and gentle with her and give her the acceptance she’s always been looking for. She doesn’t need to look to the outside world for love any longer as I now am learning to grant that to myself. Self-love is the most powerful love there is, and in that realm, there’s no such thing as being small.

What are some ways that you’re learning to be gentle with yourself, or increase self-love?