The written word has never been just a passion for me—it has been survival, salvation, and the truest expression of who I am. From the moment I first learned how to shape letters into thoughts, I began writing poems, stories, letters—anything that helped me map the emotional terrain I couldn’t speak aloud. I was a shy, inward child, often overwhelmed by the noise of the world around me. Where my voice faltered, writing stepped in. It became both mirror and refuge.

It took years—still takes years—to shape this craft. Poetry, especially, taught me how to distill chaos into clarity. Like Anne Sexton in To Bedlam and Part Way Back, I learned to lean into the dark, to explore the jagged edges of the self, and come back with something both wounded and luminous. My earliest writing felt like whispering secrets into a locked drawer; over time, I realized those secrets had the power to connect me to others. Writing didn’t just help me speak—it helped me belong.

I grew up in Northern Michigan, the quiet youngest child in a loud Italian family. I had three older brothers and a room I often escaped to, burying myself in books. The Secret Garden, Anne of Green Gables—later, Shakespeare, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby. But the voices that haunted and awakened me most were poetic: T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land taught me how language can echo a broken world and still build beauty out of ruin. These works didn’t just entertain—they excavated. They gave me new ways to see, feel, and name the world.

In high school, I began to understand that writing could be more than personal. My essays and poems began to win awards. I was still quiet, but on the page, I was fierce. That strength led me to pursue a degree in English with an emphasis in writing and a minor in journalism at Northern Michigan University. I found my first real writing community at the student newspaper. Journalism, unlike poetry, taught me how to step outside myself—how to listen, how to report, how to illuminate others’ truths. It also gave me courage. Where poetry healed, journalism pushed.

My first reporting job came in 2004, even before I’d officially earned my degree (which I completed in 2009). I brought passion and principle to the newsroom. I spoke out against injustice. I found that the quiet girl with the notebooks had developed a voice others could hear. Over time, I became a mentor to younger writers, not because I aimed to—but because I recognized in them the same hunger I had once carried. I listened. I encouraged. And most of all, I believed in their voices, as I had learned to believe in mine.

In 2017, I became editor of The Journal in Martinsburg, West Virginia—a position that asked more of me than I’d ever anticipated. I moderated political panels, spoke in public, and led a newsroom. It was daunting, but I returned, always, to what I knew: information, preparation, and a deep respect for story. I thought often of the voices that shaped me—Sexton, Eliot—and the ways they transformed personal struggle into literary power. I remembered the girl alone in her bedroom with her books, and I led with her strength.

Now, I teach middle school English Language Arts, guiding young readers and writers through the same literary landscapes that once saved me. It feels like a natural continuation of the journey—passing on the tools of language, empathy, and voice to the next generation. In every classroom discussion, every poem scribbled in the margin of a notebook, I see the spark of something beginning. And I know the written word is still doing its quiet, necessary work.