Memorial Day isn’t about celebration—it’s about remembrance. Through the fog of memory and the echoes of war, one veteran honors the fallen and carries their legacy.
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Chapter 3 rewrites, and developmental edits.
In honor of EMS Week and Mental Health Awareness Month, read a raw excerpt from The Quiet After the Sirens—a memoir about trauma, silence, and survival.
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Catching My Breath & Looking Ahead: Exciting News and Ongoing Work
Walking the stage Summa Cum Laude was a moment of deep reflection, joy, and purpose—a signal that this story is far from over.
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The Storm Within: Visualizing the Silent Struggle of First Responders
These haunting portraits of an EMT grappling with invisible wounds give voice to the untold stories behind the sirens, where pain, duty, and silence collide.
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Writing Memoir in Scenes: Telling Mental Health Stories That Heal
Memoir writing is more than memory—it’s a journey of healing. By telling our mental health stories in scenes, we create connection, meaning, and transformation.
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The Weight We Carry: Mental Health in EMS and the Silence That Follows
We don’t talk about what we see. Not really. We joke, we deflect, we survive. But The Quiet After the Sirens is about what happens when the silence breaks.
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Walking Through Fire: A Warrior’s Reflection for Mental Health Awareness Month
The first of May rises not just with spring’s fragile bloom but with the tremble of a war drum echoing deep within my chest. Today marks the beginning of Mental Health Awareness Month, and for those like me—those who wear their wounds beneath the skin …
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The Capitol’s Pages: Book Banning in Our Modern Panem
“Book banning is control disguised as protection. From the Index to today’s laws, the fight for FREADom is a battle for every generation.”
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The House of Glass — Memoir Opening Scene
A house built of glass, fragile as my childhood. Cracks spread with every argument, shaping the person I’d become. This is where my story begins.
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“Her Final Breath, My Last Choice”
On April 20th, five years ago, I had to make the most painful decision of my life—from a Zoom call. My sister was dying, and I was her healthcare proxy. While my mother and niece sat at her bedside, I gave the word to let her go. That moment changed me forever. I carry it into every EMS shift, every sleepless night, and every word I write. Today, I remember her—not as the woman we lost, but as my sister. The one I tried to save, even from a distance. The Quiet After the Sirens began with her silence.
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