Some of us had to find our way back.

Not because we wanted to be lost—but because no one showed us the way.

I wasn’t raised with all my teachings.
There are things I had to learn later, things I had to feel my way into, things I am still learning how to carry properly. And for a long time, I thought that meant I was behind.

But I’m starting to understand something different now.

I am not behind.
I am beginning.

This space—Braided Words—is part of that beginning.

It’s where I bring together the pieces of my life that never lived in the same place before. My work in literacy. The stories I carry. The things I’ve survived. The things I’m still learning how to name. The kind of love that doesn’t rush me, but meets me where I am.

Because storytelling, for me, has never just been about writing.

It’s about making sense of things that didn’t make sense when I was living them.
It’s about giving language to experiences that were once silent.
It’s about recognizing that even the parts of me that felt scattered… were never separate.

They were always meant to be braided.

In my work, I see how powerful stories are. Not just the ones we tell out loud—but the ones we inherit. The ones we carry about money, about worth, about who we are allowed to be.

And I see what happens when people begin to change those stories.

They stand differently.
They speak differently.
They begin to imagine something more for themselves.

That’s the work I do.
And that’s the work I’m doing in my own life too.

This space will hold all of that.

The personal and the professional.
The soft and the strong.
The past and the becoming.

Not perfectly.
But honestly.

Because I don’t believe we need perfect stories.

I believe we need real ones.

And this is mine.