I'm Just Amy

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This page is a little different from the others on my website.

While my poetry, photography, and writing journey tell parts of my story, this page is about the person behind them. These are some of the experiences, people, and moments that have shaped who I am and the way I see the world.

Beginnings

I was born in Gastonia, North Carolina, in March of 1977. My early childhood was marked by poverty, instability, and circumstances no child should have to endure. Yet when I look back on those years, the first image that comes to mind is not fear.

It is a barefoot little girl, dirty from playing outside, laughing.

Some of my happiest memories took place on my paternal grandparents' small piece of land. A dusty dirt road led to a modest trailer and a red barn surrounded by fields and trees. To anyone else, it may not have looked like much. To me, it felt like freedom.

My Grandpa Kaywood was tall, hardworking, and loved to crack jokes. I spent countless hours riding on the tractor beside him, helping where I could. I pulled weeds, carried tools, checked on crops, and followed him around the fields. He made me feel safe, but more importantly, he made me feel important.

My Grandma Edna was soft and kind. I remember her bright blue eyes, the bluest blue I have ever seen, and the feeling of her hand holding mine. I helped her bake in the kitchen, watched her cook, and often fell asleep while she hummed softly nearby. She made me feel cherished.

Nature became my first sanctuary. Whenever I could, I escaped outdoors. I loved animals of every kind and was forever bringing injured creatures to my Grandpa so we could help them. I climbed trees, built forts, explored fields, and found wonder in things many people overlooked. Even then, I was fascinated by the living world around me.

Faith was also present from my earliest memories.

One of my favorite memories of my biological mother, Becky, is sitting beside her, brushing her long hair while we sang "Amazing Grace" together. Long after those moments passed, I continued to hum the song to myself. I carried a well-loved doll named Betsy, and during the hardest times, I would hold her close and whisper, "One day we will leave this place." Even then, I held onto hope.

In 1983, I was adopted alongside my two sisters, Linda and Lisa. While Lisa and I were inseparable, my relationship with Linda was often more complicated. The transition changed the course of my life. My adoptive parents provided what every child deserves: love, encouragement, stability, and peace. I still remember seeing my bedroom for the first time. It was filled with books and thoughtful touches chosen just for me. I ran from one thing to the next, singing and dancing because I could hardly believe it was real.

Life with Mom and Dad was filled with ordinary moments that felt extraordinary to me. My dad was gentle, protective, and had a wonderful sense of humor. He made me feel safe. My mom was patient, kind, and loving. She had a way of making me feel special simply by being herself. They loved each other deeply and were not afraid to show it, often dancing together in the living room or sharing a hug in the kitchen.

My younger sister, Lisa, and I spent most of our days outdoors riding bikes, searching for caterpillars, rescuing injured animals, drawing on the sidewalk with chalk, and creating adventures wherever we could find them. When the weather kept us inside, I could usually be found with a book in my hands or playing school.

Looking back, I realize these moments were not extraordinary at all. They were simply the everyday experiences of childhood. But for me, they were precious. For the first time in my life, I was being given the chance to simply be a child.

Healing did not happen overnight. Adoption brought safety, but it did not erase the wounds I carried. I struggled with insecurity, loneliness, confusion, and fears of abandonment. Yet little by little, I began to learn what it felt like to live without constantly looking over my shoulder.

By the time I reached my tenth birthday, I felt something I had never fully known before.

I could finally breathe.

When I look back on that little girl now, I don't think first about what she survived. I think about her spirit.

She was free-spirited, tenacious, and endlessly curious. She loved animals, books, stories, and the natural world. She held tightly to hope, even when she had every reason not to.

I think that little girl still lives inside me today.

Finding My Voice

The years between childhood and adulthood were filled with questions. Looking back, I think the word that best describes that season of my life is searching.

By then, I had found peace and stability through adoption, but I was still trying to understand who I was and where I belonged. I was a good student who loved learning and usually sat in the front row of class. I was observant, obedient, and always eager to help others. I still preferred climbing trees to playing with dolls, spent most of my free time outdoors, and dreamed of working with animals or somehow helping make the world a better place. But, I was very restless.

When I was twelve, my parents sensed I was struggling with questions I did not yet know how to put into words. That summer, they sent me to spend several months with my Aunt Jan in Oregon. Jan, my mother's younger sister, had always fascinated me. Creative, adventurous, and deeply connected to the natural world, she lived on a small farm surrounded by vineyards, animals, and rolling green pastures.

For the first time, I boarded a plane by myself and flew across the country. I spent my days collecting eggs, helping with chores, riding horses, and exploring a world far different from the one I knew in North Carolina. It was a summer filled with freedom, wonder, and possibility.

More importantly, I watched my aunt build a life entirely her own. She raised animals, worked the land, created beautiful things with her hands, and pursued her passions with confidence and joy. Through her, I began to understand that success could take many forms and that there was no single path through life. The world suddenly seemed much bigger than I had imagined.

When I returned home, I felt older, more independent, and more sure of myself. Looking back, I realize something important shifted in me that summer. To this day, visiting Aunt Jan still feels like coming home. We are kindred spirits, connected by a shared love of nature, creativity, and the belief that a meaningful life is one lived authentically.

But even with that renewed sense of possibility, many of the questions I carried remained unanswered. Beneath the surface, I was carrying secrets.

Around this same time, I was beginning to realize I was different from many of my friends. While they talked about boys, I found myself drawn to girls. My first real crush was on a close friend when I was thirteen. I never told her how I felt, but I knew something inside me was different. Because faith had always been important to me, I spent years asking difficult questions. Did God make me this way? If so, why? Was there something wrong with me? I carried those questions quietly, searching for answers I could not yet find.

When I was fifteen, my family moved from Cary to Sneads Ferry, a small coastal town near Wilmington, North Carolina. At first, I was nervous. Cary was all I had known, and I had finally learned how to fit in there. Moving to a small town near the ocean felt like stepping into an entirely different world.

The transition was both exciting and challenging. I fell in love with the water, the slower pace of life, and the natural beauty of the coast. Life in Sneads Ferry felt simpler and more connected to the things I valued most. But adjusting socially was not always easy. Most of my classmates had grown up together, and as the new student from a more affluent area, I often felt judged before people took the time to know me. For a while, I felt like I stood out everywhere I went.

Over time, however, Sneads Ferry began to feel like home. The people were friendlier, life moved at a gentler pace, and the outdoors once again became a refuge. Looking back, the move taught me important lessons about belonging, resilience, and finding my place even when I felt different.

During my junior year of high school, a history assignment unexpectedly brought many of my adoption questions to the surface. We were asked to create a family tree and interview relatives about their lives.

As my classmates talked about family resemblances and stories passed down through generations, I found myself thinking about my own story in a new way. I loved my family deeply, but I was also curious about the people I had come from and the pieces of my history I did not know.

The assignment stirred questions I had carried quietly for years. It also led to a conversation that changed our family. Until then, my younger sister, Lisa, had never been told that we were adopted.

I had always known I was adopted, but it wasn't something openly discussed. Although I was never ashamed of being adopted, the silence surrounding it made it feel like something that needed to be hidden.

The conversation that followed changed our family. Lisa was twelve when she learned we were adopted. She was heartbroken, and my parents were furious that I had broken their trust. Looking back, I understand they were trying to protect her, but for years I had carried a secret that affected both of us. It was a burden no child should have been asked to bear.

When I was seventeen, my mother suffered a heart attack. The doctors were not sure she would survive, but after weeks of treatment and recovery, she came home. For a time, it felt as though we had been given a second chance.

Six months later, she suffered another heart attack. This time, she did not survive. She was forty-seven years old.

The loss shattered my world.

In many ways, I became the anchor of our family. I helped make sure my sisters got to school, completed their homework, and stayed on track. My father fell into a deep depression and withdrew into himself. Six months later, he remarried. It was a difficult and confusing time for all of us.

For a long time, I didn't allow myself to grieve. I focused on school, responsibilities, and taking care of those around me. Outwardly, I kept moving forward. Inwardly, I felt lost.

Nature once again became my refuge. I spent long evenings on our screened porch listening to crickets, watching the stars, and talking to my mother. I wasn't sure where she was, but I believed she could somehow hear me. Walking through the woods, riding my bike through the neighborhood, and spending time outdoors helped quiet the noise inside my heart.

About a year after my mother's death, I began seeing a grief therapist. During one session, she noticed I was doodling and asked if I enjoyed drawing. I told her I did, though I didn't think I was very good at it. Then she asked if I liked to write.

I smiled.

I told her I loved stories, but that I would never be an author.

She smiled back and said, "You might surprise yourself one day."

She encouraged me to start keeping a journal and told me not to worry about whether the writing was good enough. Just write. Write whatever I was feeling.

So I did.

At first, I wrote about whatever was on my mind: the loss of my mother, the uncertainty of the future, and the ordinary details of daily life.

For the first time, I had a place where I could put everything I was carrying. The page didn't judge me. It didn't argue with me. It didn't tell me what I should believe or how I should feel. It simply listened.

What began as a tool for processing grief quickly became something much more. Through journaling, I found a safe place to explore my thoughts, questions, fears, and hopes. The page became a trusted companion during one of the most difficult seasons of my life.

I didn't know it then, but I was beginning a relationship with writing that would last more than thirty years.

At seventeen, I wasn't finding answers.

I was searching for them.

And somewhere along the way, I found my voice.

Becoming Myself

By the time I graduated from high school, I knew one thing with certainty: I was attracted to women.

That realization had not come suddenly. It had been growing quietly for years through crushes, questions, and feelings I could not explain away. By then, I knew it was not a phase. The harder question was what to do with that truth.

The years that followed were marked by both growth and uncertainty. I attended community college before transferring to UNC Wilmington to pursue a degree in Social Work. College opened my world in ways I never expected. For the first time, I met other gay and lesbian people. I quietly joined an LGBT group on campus and immediately felt at home. These were ordinary people living ordinary lives, carrying many of the same questions and struggles I was carrying.

For years, I had felt alone. Suddenly, I wasn't.

My faith also began to deepen during this time. I asked difficult questions and searched for answers wherever I could find them. I visited different churches, explored different perspectives, and spent countless hours reflecting on what I believed. I did not have everything figured out, but I was learning that faith and questions could exist together.

On the surface, life appeared fairly ordinary. I was a student, a daughter, a sister, and a girlfriend. For several years, I dated a wonderful man named Matt. Looking back, I realize our relationship began because I was trying to fit into the expectations I thought others had for me. Yet over time, I came to genuinely love him. He was kind, thoughtful, and patient. During some of the hardest years following my mother's death, he offered comfort, friendship, and a steady presence in my life.

Matt represented an important chapter of my story, and I will always be grateful for that.

As college continued, I found myself increasingly afraid of losing who I was beneath the expectations, responsibilities, and roles I carried. I had spent years trying to be what everyone else needed me to be. Somewhere along the way, I realized I needed to discover who Amy was.

Around that time, I met a young woman named Laura through the internet. We began as friends. We exchanged emails, letters, photographs, and stories about our lives. We talked about writing, nature, animals, dreams, and everything in between. She listened without judgment, and I found myself sharing parts of myself that I rarely shared with anyone else.

Eventually, friendship became something more.

When Laura admitted she had feelings for me, I felt equal parts excitement and panic. For years, my feelings had existed mostly in secret. Suddenly, they were real. Someone else felt the same way.

When she visited North Carolina, I experienced my first real romantic relationship with a woman. I still remember the butterflies I felt when she kissed me. More importantly, I remember realizing that the future I had been afraid to imagine might actually be possible.

At the same time, another milestone was approaching.

In May of 2000, I graduated from UNC Wilmington with a degree in Social Work. As I walked across the stage, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride. I had done it. I was the first person in my biological family to graduate from college. For a brief moment, I felt the absence of my mother and wished she could be there. Then I looked into the crowd and saw my father, Lisa, and Susan Mama cheering for me. My father was beaming with pride. Tears streamed down faces throughout my family.

It remains one of the happiest moments of my life.

Not long afterward, I reached a crossroads.

Years earlier, I had carried the burden of keeping my sister's adoption a secret. I knew firsthand how heavy secrets could become. Now I was carrying one of my own. The truth about who I was could no longer remain hidden.

A difficult but loving conversation with Susan Mama eventually led me to tell my father that I was gay.

I was terrified.

I was relieved.

I was happy.

I was scared.

Most of all, I felt free.

The next morning was uncomfortable and uncertain. Nothing about the situation felt easy. Yet beneath the fear was a surprising sense of peace. The secret no longer belonged to me alone.

Life did not suddenly become perfect. Laura and I eventually went our separate ways, and many questions still remained. But something important had changed.

I had stopped hiding.

When I look back at twenty-two-year-old Amy today, the word that comes to mind is strength. Not because I had all the answers, but because I finally found the courage to be myself.

Matt had been part of my past. Laura represented the future I was learning to embrace. Neither was wrong. Both were important seasons of my life.

Looking back now, I realize that what Laura ultimately gave me was not a relationship. She gave me the courage to step fully into my own life.

The Long Road Home

When I graduated from college at twenty-two, I believed I could change the world. Armed with a degree in Social Work and a heart full of idealism, I accepted a position at Barium Springs Home for Children. Many of the youth I worked with came from backgrounds marked by abuse, neglect, addiction, and instability. I poured myself into the work, determined to make a difference.

For two years, I lived and worked on campus, investing deeply in the lives of the young people entrusted to my care. Looking back, I realize I was drawn to the work because I understood what it felt like to be a child searching for safety and belonging. I wanted to be the person I had once needed.

That chapter came to an abrupt end when a mother arrived intoxicated to pick up her daughter. The young girl begged not to leave with her. When I refused to release her and documented what had happened, I found myself accused of wrongdoing and placed under investigation. Though I had acted in what I believed was the child's best interest, the experience left me disillusioned and emotionally exhausted. It reopened wounds I thought had long since healed and ultimately led me away from social work.

The years that followed became a season of searching. I experienced relationships, heartbreaks, and hard lessons about love. Again and again, I found myself drawn to people who were hurting. I believed that if I loved enough, cared enough, or sacrificed enough, I could help them heal. It would take many years for me to learn that love and rescue are not the same thing.

At twenty-six, another journey began.

For years, I had wondered about my biological mother, Becky. I carried fragments of memories, questions, and unanswered longings. With the help of a volunteer search organization, I began searching for her. The journey led me to relatives I had never known and eventually to both sides of my biological family. For the first time, I began to understand where I came from and the complicated history that shaped my early life.

After years of searching, I finally found Becky.

We spoke on the phone only once.

Less than twenty-four hours later, she died before we ever had the opportunity to meet.

Though our reunion was painfully brief, the search answered many of the questions I had carried for years. I learned more about my biological family, the circumstances that shaped my early childhood, and the complicated realities that existed long before I was born.

The experience gave me a deeper understanding of where I came from and helped me make peace with parts of my past that had remained unresolved

The search for Becky helped me understand more than my family history. It helped me understand myself. I learned where I came from, why certain things had happened, and how generations of trauma often leave their mark long before we are born. Eventually, I shared what I had learned with my adoptive family and began the difficult process of weaving those truths into my own story.

My late twenties and early thirties brought a season of stability. I moved to Greensboro and spent five years working in the admissions office at UNC Greensboro. For the first time in a long while, I felt confident, independent, and hopeful about the future. I built a career, formed friendships, and began creating a life that felt entirely my own.

During that time, I had a relationsip that although brief, which introduced me to theater and musicals, passions that remain with me today. When she accepted a teaching position in Charlotte, I followed. The relationship eventually ended, but the move brought me closer to my family once again and opened the door to the next chapter of my life.

That next chapter would become both one of the most meaningful and most difficult periods I would ever experience.

I met a woman and eventually fell in love not only with her, but with her eight year old daughter. What began as a relationship grew into something much larger. We built a life together and, for a time, became a family.

That little girl quickly captured my heart. We spent our days fishing, catching tadpoles, exploring the outdoors, attending soccer games, and sharing the countless ordinary moments that make up a life. I packed lunches, attended parent-teacher conferences, braided hair, and watched her grow. One day she called me Mama, and from that moment forward, a piece of my heart belonged to her.

Life, however, was far more complicated than it appeared from the outside. My partner struggled with significant mental health challenges. There were seasons of hope and stability, followed by seasons of withdrawal, anger, and turmoil. Over time, I slowly lost pieces of myself. My world became smaller. I grew isolated from family and friends. The confident woman who had once built a life in Greensboro began to disappear

The turning point came when I looked in the mirror one day and barely recognized myself.

Around that same time, writing found me again.

Through poetry, journaling, and online writing communities, I reconnected with parts of myself that had been buried for years. It was also during this time that I met a woman online who lived in England. What began as friendship became one of the most meaningful relationships of my life. More importantly, she reminded me that the real Amy still existed beneath years of caretaking, fear, and self-sacrifice.

As my life continued to unravel, I was forced to confront difficult truths. I was unhappy. I was losing myself. And despite how much I loved the family we had built, I could not continue living as I had been.

Leaving was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made.

The most painful part was not losing the relationship.

It was losing the child I had come to love as my own.

On my final day, we sat together by the lake where we had spent so many afternoons over the years. We cried together. We hugged. When she asked if we would ever see each other again, I told her I did not know.

"Maybe in our dreams," she said.

"Yes," I told her. "Always in our dreams."

The next day, my sister, Lisa helped me pack what remained of my belongings. As we prepared to leave, I hugged my daughter one final time. The three of us were all crying. Then , Lisa and I got into the car and drove back to Charlotte.

I cried the entire way home.

I knew it was goodbye.

Looking back now, I understand why this chapter of my life feels like a long road home. For seventeen years, I searched for purpose, family, belonging, identity, and love. Sometimes I found them. Sometimes I lost them. Often I misunderstood them.

But every experience, every heartbreak, every lesson, and every unexpected turn brought me closer to understanding who I was.

The road was longer than I expected.

The lessons were harder than I imagined.

I was thirty-nine years old.

The road had finally led me home.

Loss, Love, & Resilience

I thought I had found home, but then life changed again. The years that followed brought some of the greatest joys and deepest losses of my life. Yet this chapter is not defined by loss alone.

It is also a story of love, healing, and resilience.

In 2015, my sister Linda passed away at the age of thirty-six.

When my father called to tell me, I wasn't surprised. Linda had struggled with addiction for much of her life, and deep down I knew it would eventually catch up with her. That didn't make the news any easier to hear.

Grief is rarely simple, and losing Linda was one of the most complicated losses I have ever experienced.

For most of our lives, our relationship was strained. Addiction had transformed her into someone I often barely recognized. The years were marked by hurt, broken trust, anger, and disappointment. Yet beneath all of that lived the memory of a little girl I once knew and loved. Before the addiction, before the chaos, before everything fell apart, she was my sister.

I wasn't just grieving the person she had been. I was grieving the person she could have become.

There was no funeral. After she was cremated, her ashes remained in my father's closet for nearly a year before our family finally held a small service. Even now, when I think about Linda, I don't think of a single emotion. I think of sadness, relief, anger, love, regret, and unanswered questions all tangled together.

Her death taught me something I have carried ever since: you cannot save everyone. No matter how much you love someone, no matter how desperately you want a different ending, some battles are not yours to win.

What I needed people to understand then—and what I understand more clearly now—is that someone can cause tremendous pain and still be mourned. Love and grief are not always neat. Sometimes they coexist with anger. Sometimes they leave behind more questions than answers.

In many ways, I had been grieving Linda long before she died.

That same year, Lisa and I started A&L Happy Pets.

The idea was born out of necessity. I needed work, and after Linda's death, I needed something positive to focus on. Animals had always been a part of our lives, and starting a pet sitting business felt like a natural fit.

I was terrified.

Building a business from the ground up is no small feat. There were no guarantees, no safety nets, and no way to know if it would succeed.

Still, I believed in hard work, and I believed in us.

Our very first client was Rhonda. I had met her while working for another pet sitting company, and when I decided to venture out on my own, she followed me. That simple act of trust meant more than she will probably ever know. Someone believed in us before we had even proven ourselves.

Slowly, the business began to grow.

After about a year, Lisa and I looked at each other and said what we had both been quietly thinking: "This might actually work."

Over time, A&L Happy Pets became much more than a business. It became something we built together. It represented freedom, independence, and the ability to create a life on our own terms. It gave us the opportunity to work with animals every day while serving our community and building meaningful relationships with both people and pets.

Working alongside Lisa has been one of the greatest gifts of my life. We each bring different strengths to the table, and together we make a strong team. While I have always loved animals, Lisa has a special gift with them. She is what I affectionately call an animal whisperer. Her compassion extends to every creature she meets, and I have learned so much simply by watching her.

What began as a small dream grew into something real. Looking back now, A&L Happy Pets feels like a seed planted during a difficult season of life. Through patience, hard work, and faith, it grew into something neither of us could have imagined.

Animals have taught me countless lessons over the years, but perhaps the most important is this: love does not have to be complicated.

Animals see us at our best and our worst, and they love us anyway. All they ask in return is our kindness, our care, and our presence.

To this day, my favorite part of the job is still the same: puppy kisses.

For the next several years, life settled into a steady rhythm.

From 2015 through 2020, I worked full-time at the airport while continuing to build A&L Happy Pets on the side. Lisa handled much of the pet sitting, and together we slowly grew the business one client at a time. They were busy years, but they were good years. We worked hard, laughed often, and built a partnership that became stronger than ever before.

I was busy planting seeds for my future and for Lisa's too.

Then, like it did for so many people, COVID changed everything.

Almost overnight, travel stopped. People began working from home, vacations were canceled, and the demand for pet sitting dropped dramatically. The business we had worked so hard to build suddenly felt uncertain. The effects went far beyond finances. Like many others, we struggled with the isolation, uncertainty, and stress that came with those years.

Still, we kept going.

As the world slowly reopened, our clients began returning. New clients found us. The business regained its footing, and once again we found ourselves looking toward the future with hope.

During this time, I also found myself writing more than ever. Writing had always been a companion, but it became even more important as I tried to make sense of a rapidly changing world. It gave me a place to process my thoughts, fears, hopes, and dreams.

While life was beginning to move forward again, another challenge was quietly emerging.

My father's health was declining.

He had stopped drinking, something our family had hoped and prayed for over many years. Yet as the alcohol disappeared, other struggles became more visible. Looking back, I believe alcohol had masked many of the emotional and mental health challenges he carried for decades. For the first time, those struggles could no longer be ignored.

None of us knew then just how much our lives were about to change.

In early 2024, my father's health began to decline rapidly.

For years, he had struggled with various health issues, but things became more serious after a series of hospitalizations related to kidney stones and gallbladder problems. During one hospital stay, he developed sepsis and came very close to dying.

When he returned home, he seemed different.

His hands often shook. He became more forgetful. After being forced into retirement, his anxiety and depression grew significantly. The strong, capable man I had always known was facing challenges that neither he nor our family fully understood.

Through it all, my stepmom remained by his side. She loved him deeply and cared for him with unwavering devotion. Looking back, I am grateful for the love and support she gave him during those difficult months.

In October of 2024, my father ended his life.

His death changed me in ways I am still discovering.

Losing my mother had taught me that life can change in an instant. Losing my father taught me that some questions do not have answers.

For the first year, I searched for explanations. I wanted to understand what happened and why. I wanted to make sense of something that felt impossible to understand. Eventually, I've come to realize that some questions cannot be solved. Some losses cannot be neatly explained.

There comes a point when you must decide whether to remain trapped inside the questions or continue living.

I chose to keep living.

That choice did not erase the grief. I still miss my father's laugh. I miss his advice. I miss the way he always made me feel like I mattered. He listened when I spoke. He believed in me long before I believed in myself. He taught me the value of hard work, perseverance, and chasing my dreams.

Most of all, he taught me that life is precious.

I never got the chance to say goodbye, but I know he knew how much I loved him, just as I knew how much he loved me.

A few months after his death, I began grief therapy for the first time since losing my mother. It was both frightening and healing. Therapy is helping me process my grief, but it also helps me recognize something I have overlooked for much of my life.

I am resilient.

For a long time, I saw resilience as something other people saw in me. It took nearly fifty years for me to fully recognize it in myself.

I thought losing my father might break me.

It didn't.

Instead, it deepened my compassion, strengthened my faith, and reminded me once again how fragile and precious life truly is.

Why I Share My Words

Writing has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.

Long before I published a book, built a website, or shared a single poem publicly, I was filling journals with my thoughts. Writing became a place where I could make sense of the world around me and the emotions within me. It was where I processed grief, celebrated joy, asked difficult questions, and discovered who I was.

More than anything, writing gave me a place where I could be completely myself.

On the page, there are no expectations. No roles to fulfill. No masks to wear. There is only honesty.

For many years, my writing was something I kept mostly to myself. Sharing it with the world felt both exciting and terrifying. I wondered if anyone would connect with my words or understand what I was trying to say. Thankfully, I was surrounded by people who believed in me long before I believed in myself. Lisa, my church family, and many dear friends encouraged me to take that leap.

So I did.

Publishing my work was never about becoming an author. It was about connection.

There have been many moments in my life when I felt alone. I know what it feels like to wonder if anyone truly understands what you are carrying. Through my writing, I hope to be a voice that reminds others they are not alone.

If my words help even one person feel seen, understood, or encouraged, then sharing them has been worth it.

Nature continues to inspire much of what I write. It has been a faithful companion throughout every season of my life. In nature, I see resilience, renewal, beauty, and grace. I am reminded that life moves in cycles. Things grow, change, fade, and bloom again. Nature teaches me to pay attention, to slow down, and to trust that growth often happens beneath the surface long before we can see it.

My faith is woven through everything I create. I believe God gave me a gift for writing, and I try to honor that gift by using it with purpose and intention. While I do not have all the answers, I have learned that hope is worth holding onto, even in life's darkest seasons.

Today, I write because I love it.

I write because stories matter.

I write because words have the power to heal, comfort, challenge, and connect us.

Most of all, I write because I believe our stories matter.

When people read my work, I do not want them to see someone extraordinary. I want them to see someone who kept going. Someone who loved deeply, lost deeply, learned along the way, and never stopped believing that better days were possible.

I am just Amy.

A writer. A dreamer. A lover of nature. A woman of faith. A sister. A friend.

And if there is one thing I hope people carry with them after reading my words, it is this:

There is hope.

Always.

Words by Amy Michelle