Love

How do you introduce a story that didn’t begin with intention—but with pain? How do you present something that was never meant to be a book, but became one because the ache was too loud to stay quiet?

 

Over the course of a year—48 sessions—I worked with someone who said there was a part of him he couldn’t let go of.

 

And I saw why.

 

It was the part that had never been seen. Never validated. Never allowed to speak without being corrected or quieted.

What started as therapy slowly became testimony.

Not a cure, not a conclusion. But a remembering.

 

That story is now printed, for the first time, in the world's hands.​

 

The sound of a child’s unfairly broken heart—in poetry.

 

This is a book for anyone who was taught versions of love that came with conditions.

 

Love that looked like silence.

Love that sounded like guilt.

Love that only showed up when you were “easy to love.”

 

When I gave him the first copy, he read the opening poem, paused, and said:

“Well, now at least we know a part of what I will leave behind when I go.”

 

And that’s it. That’s why this exists.

 

To turn pain into something you can touch.

Something to hold.

Something to let go.

Something to pass on, once it’s no longer needed.

 

He chose to remain anonymous. So there's no name. Not even mine.

 

He told me: “It’s too simple, too ordinary, too personal to belong to anyone. And too universal to belong to just me.”

 

So we left it that way.

 

No author. No spotlight. Just truth.

 

This wasn’t written to be marketed.

It was written to be felt.

 

If it finds its way to you, I hope it finds the part of you that’s still waiting to be understood.

The part that learned to fold itself smaller just to be loved.

 

This is not a happy ending.

It’s a real one.

And sometimes, that’s the most healing kind.

 

Now available, @$29.99.

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Because some stories aren’t just stories. They’re a mirror.

And sometimes, they’re the first time someone feels seen.