Seven years ago, a seemingly innocuous Instagram post sparked a profound transformation in my life. Back then, I was knee-deep in blogging and book reviews, driven by an unwavering passion for the written word. Reading had always been my solace, my escape into countless worlds, and it was only natural that the urge to create those worlds through writing followed suit.

My educational journey began with dreams of pursuing journalism, a path I believed in. However, external pressures, particularly my mother’s perspective on my chosen degree, led me to switch gears to nursing. Looking back, it feels cringe-worthy to recall how I allowed external influences to sway my decisions.

At the core of it all, I was a recovering people pleaser, desperately seeking approval even if it meant sacrificing my own happiness. But that pivotal semester as a journalism student uncovered a hidden talent within me.

My writing professor at the time recognized something special—my ability to evoke emotions with words. It was during a writing exercise where I vividly described a fantasy location, my eyes closed, envisioning every detail, and translating it onto paper as if in a trance. This intuitive approach to writing, where I feel half-awake and half-asleep, has remained my creative process.

But what kept me writing was a deeper purpose.

As a voracious reader in my youth, I often struggled to see myself reflected in the stories and characters I encountered. While I enjoyed the tales, they lacked the profound impact I yearned for because they rarely mirrored my experiences. That all changed when I stumbled upon that life-altering Instagram post.

It urged me to delve into the “why” of my love for writing, to question until my answer stirred profound emotions. MY PURPOSE BECAME CRYSTAL CLEAR when I revisited my younger self, clutching books like lifelines in an uncertain world.

I wanted to be that lifeline for others.

I aspired to write books delving into complex families, tackling challenging subjects, and addressing the unspoken. These stories would feature characters who resembled me and shared my cultural background, offering a lifeline to children facing the same predicaments I once did. I aimed to validate their emotions, help them feel seen, and be a beacon of light in their darkest moments. The day I spoke these aspirations aloud, and tears welled in my eyes, I knew I had found my purpose.

I’ve often shared that I leave a piece of myself in everything I write; it’s a compulsion I can’t escape. In “Mrs. Franchy’s Evil Ring and the Six Months that Changed Everything,” I revisit the anxiety of my nine-year-old self transitioning into a new and unfamiliar environment.

From being the center of my grandmother’s world to feeling like a distant cousin in my father’s house, I vividly remember the emotional whirlwind. I knew my stepmother’s affection for my step-siblings was more genuine than what she felt for me. I longed for love, and yet it eluded me. As William Faulkner so eloquently put it, the past has an uncanny way of seeping into the present.

THOSE BURIED MEMORIES RESURFACED when I married my husband and became a stepmom. During the six months my stepchildren lived with us, I grappled with my scars, striving to ensure they felt loved and welcomed in an unfamiliar setting. It was during this challenging period that “Mrs. Franchy’s Evil Ring and the Six Months that Changed Everything” was born.

This book became my medium for revisiting the past, addressing old wounds, and crafting a story that resonates with anyone who has ever felt like an outsider, yearning for acceptance and love.

In sharing my journey, I hope to inspire others to uncover their purpose and embrace their unique voice, just as I’ve discovered mine through the art of storytelling.