Silence does not arrive alone.

Nor does it come first. It follows the wind like a shadow slipping through the same cracked revolving door. The two are practiced traders of threshold, co-conspirators of presence, yet opposite in flesh.

Rageful wind, firstborn upon your path, uproots settled graces with restless urgency, stripping unspoken truths of their shelter and casting them into barren lands, windburned and raw. A machine beyond our control, we live at the mercy of its path.

Only then does silence materialize and settle, unapologetic of its tardiness. dense, insistent, ringing with annoying support. It arrives to guide your rebuilding.

———

I am naturally gifted at denying my stubbornness.

I was a one-woman full-stack marketing team. I was building client websites, managing social media calendars, performing SEO audits, coordinating email campaign automations, designing graphics, while managing my own sales strategies, admin, payroll… the list goes on. My to-do list was endless, my energy scattered, and my nervous system fried.

Like a digital Swiss Army knife, I could handle everything, but eventually I stopped feeling anything.

And then, slowly, I gave myself permission to let go.

I began tidying.

Not just my desk drawers or inbox, but my work.

And as the noise quieted and the fog began to thin, a peripheral sound stirred beneath the unyielding boulders. A voice within the loam spoke to me from its tomb. Low and humming, it threaded through the ground like the faint hiss of dew evaporating off spring grass. I knew the sound; distant, but striking. Curiosity rooted me still.

The voice quivered, then cleared its shaky throat in self-conscious surprise. It wheezed palely, sputtering, vertically pitching its inflexible limbs against the fortress of packed dirt. The footpath bloomed, with each strike, like lung tissue. Compacted by the weight of my Sisyphean path, the sun-hardened soil barely flinched at the tremor of soundwaves beneath, but I heard them nonetheless.

Still veiled, the voice’s purpose rang clear, like a bell before the dawn. I held my surveillant gaze from a berth just beyond the oscillating ground.

Through relentless, dehydrated coughing, violent in necessity, the voice began to purge its tomb. It expelled the remnants of two feral cohabitants: shame’s gritty residue, and the sticky embarrassment of neglect.

As the voice shook loose its spoiled tenants, it faltered from the exertion. The vacant rags of the exiled transients breached the footpath, then dissolved into a slow ooze. A muddy current pushed upward, saturating the soil in a dark, damp sheen, spread in an oily halo of dismissal, sanguine in its ghostly release.

Now rid of its shadows, the voice settled into a hush. Then, slowly, bravely, it began to stretch, rippling the dirt in expanding waves, like the widening circles caused by a slow and steady drip. A syrupy warmth took shape in the voice, coating the air. Each exhale flushed the atmosphere clean of poignant obligation, letting something sweeter rise - a scent like rain on dry earth.

Beneath the clutter, it waited steadily and unafraid: the writer.

A truth I once buried breached at last.

—-

I choose to let joy be my guide.

Not the fleeting, wired kind of gladness that fried my nervous system with every step of a high-stakes marketing win. Not the adrenaline thrill of being right, fast, clever. That was always short-lived and exhausting.

Not the fleeting, shallow ‘'gladness’ (short lived, exhaustive while it’s here, frying my nervous system to bits through each step) I felt from dominating a marketing strategy, but the luscious, instinctive joy that blooms when I write. The kind that stretches toward the light (like a resilient pine forest?). What began as a quiet disturbance beneath thickly cluttered obligations has grown into a disciplined practice: shaping voice, story, and clarity.

I’m talking about my version of joy; a lush, instinctive energy that blooms when I write. It stretches toward the light like a forest aching for sun.
What began as a quiet unrest beneath layers of obligation has grown into a steady, deliberate practice of shaping brand voice, story.

Now, my joy leaps in jubilant pirouettes, guided by a compass beyond celestial rules—scattering light, turning freely, and exalting at the altar of creative freedom. This shift has brought me energy, clarity, and returned the devotion I once craved through arduous productivity. So I’m bringing that to my work.

After thirteen years of storytelling across agencies, industries, brands, and borders, I’ve found that my sharpest strategy work comes from this very state.

Today, I work with small teams and creative agencies as a dedicated copywriter, bringing clarity, voice, and structure to blog posts, landing pages, website content, social captions, email campaigns, product and service descriptions, and more.

I write for real people, and I do it in a way that makes your job easier. No babysitting required.

This work honors my joy—word by word.