As a single mother, I was desperate to leave behind something lasting and tangible that could guide my children through the complexities of life. A legacy of some sort. Something honest and enlightened. Something more than just memories. Something that was a piece of my heart.

I felt called to pass on the emotional intelligence and life lessons I had not learned until well into my fourth decade. Hard-earned wisdom shaped by trial and error. I wanted to give my daughters Preventive Awareness so they could be proactive about their own emotional well-being. I reasoned that if they could grasp these concepts at an early age, perhaps they could avoid some of the relational pain that steered my life onto unexpected roads.

As my inner thoughts continued to form Words on a Page, I went to the darkest places: The search for meaning amidst the overwhelming grief, the fragility of existence, the truth of my mortality, the essence of my own Faith, the haunting echo of all that might have been. And finally, at long last, painfully slow Surrender as I stopped fighting and made peace with the dictates of destiny. And in the Surrender, I didn’t find an ending. I found a new beginning. A new way of living. A new version of me. A paradox I now understand: In dying, I was being taught how to live.

Dying helped me learn the art of living in the present moment. Dying helped me welcome the unknown instead of fearing it. Dying helped me live as if each day truly matters, because it does.

I finally abandoned my emotional baggage in the past where it belongs and left the future to take care of itself. I no longer wanted to live crushed beneath the weight of past betrayals and resentments, stranded at the crossroads of regret and traumatic memories.