There's a knee pad missing. My eyeliner is on someone else's face. The comforter is Judas. And somehow, in the middle of all of it, the book found its reader.

My hair girl has been on maternity leave since October. My book has been in progress for 1,826 days. Neglecting both at the same time means you're deep in something. Finishing both at the same time means you're finally coming up for air.

This week I hit my goal weight, lost my boobs and my a*, got a client who told me I was too safe, and my husband had a dream I looked like a hagfish. The mirror doesn't lie — and for once, I didn't hate what it had to say.

One transvaginal ultrasound, one sick Frenchie, and a manuscript that needed me to go back into the hard chapters. Welcome to the wand week.

A new client mentioned almost casually that a colleague of his worked with me once and wasn't sure she got what she paid for.

That was four years ago. When I was four months in. Just a girl with a Canva account and a whole lot of nerve.

His boss's actual feedback on my current work? I'm giving away too much. Pull it back.

Rookie me didn't know jack sht. Turns out that's not always a bad thing

I lost my voice this week. Not metaphorically. Like, actually couldn't talk. Which if you know me at all, you know this is a problem. At one point my husband—all 6'5", 300 pounds of tattooed sexy saint—looked at me and said: "I have an idea... STOP TALKING." This week I also got tattooed. Didn't add anything new. Just filled in the gaps. Funny how that's exactly what I'm doing with my manuscript.

I scrolled through four years of my life this week and didn't recognize myself. Gray pencil skirt. Red turtleneck. Not a single tattoo on my arms yet. Platinum blonde hair. And as I kept scrolling, I watched the time machine play out — different hairstyles, different colors, a very clear season of insecurity. The year of cancer. All the things. And the time machine told me something I've been forgetting: You have accomplished more than you give yourself credit for. A lot can happen in four years.

I discovered fake eyelashes, my fingers staged a revolt, and I remembered what hugs feel like. Also: I might be pitching publishers soon because apparently I'm a sales slut.

"Bro, you aren't Oprah. No one cares." That's what the voice in my head keeps saying while I'm knee-deep in Chapter 3 enrichment. This week I had my anti-Oprah moment—the one where self-doubt screams that my story isn't special enough, unique enough, or worth anyone's time. But here's what I keep coming back to: It's not about being Oprah. It's about the person who reads your words and goes "oh shit, me too." The voice that says "no one cares" is loud this week. But I'm writing anyway.

On soul-crushing exhaustion, rediscovering things again and again, and why the book I'm writing includes all the shit show moments and ugly cries. Because isn't that life?

All 19 chapters are done, but the book needs to be beefier. I could add filler—pad scenes, write words just for words' sake. But that's not the book you deserve to read. So it hit me: what this bitch needs is more fun, more feelings, more F-bombs. The three F's. This week I stopped writing the safe version and started writing the real one.

Sometimes enjoying the shit that matters means enjoying things that also hurt. Presence doesn't mean everything feels good - it means showing up for what's real. The moments that break your heart are often the ones that matter most.

This week I realized I've been doing man math with my manuscript—the writing equivalent of spending $975 at Lowe's to save $200. I have 12 of 18 chapters assembled (67% by count), but only 32,822 words of my 65,000-70,000 target (50% by word count). The cancer chapters were the hardest to write—reliving the diagnosis, ER judgment, and recliner prison. But they're done. The remaining 6 chapters are clearer, less traumatic, more about choosing what comes next. The doubt spiral is real, but so is the progress. One chapter at a time.

After enough creative shutdowns, I basically showed up at meetings with duct tape over my mouth and nodded politely. Smile and nod, bitches. That was the strategy. Fast-forward to today, and those ideas? The ones I used to suppress? They're why I'm hired. It turns out the things that made me feel like an interruption in corporate were actually my superpower. I just needed permission to use them.

This week hit different—between piecing together Chapter 6, my daughter's first heartbreak, and a devotional that asked: What's your Babylon? What season are you trying to survive?

Why I got a stomach tattoo on the abs I earned after cancer reconstruction—and what that has to do with keeping my manuscript unapologetically raw.

Some weeks you sprint. Some weeks you float. A raw look at sustainable pace, new client chaos, and trusting the process when your brain checks out.

Writing Chapter 14 about cancer forced me to name the moments that changed everything. Thinking vs. documenting—why writing makes transformation tangible.

This week I let AI edit a chapter of my book. It was efficient, polished, and completely lifeless. Here's what happened when I fired Bot Becca and took my voice back.