Writing the first draft of my novel felt like a constant knife fight with myself. I made it out alive but I have an excessive amount of oozing stab wounds.

It was ten long months of starting and stopping. Thinking I was a plotter only to learn I was more of a pantser. Trying to write pretty, then deciding to write bad on purpose. Chasing word count goals. Discovering I don’t know how to write a fight scene. Stopping. Starting. Stopping again. Until I finally typed the last word.

The idea came to me from a simple dream. I was locked in a dressing room of sorts when the power shut off and one bright red light appeared. The light blinked like a phone suddenly ringing when you’re home alone. Loud and jarring. A giant rock settling into my gut the second I saw it. So naturally I pressed the button.

A screen lit up telling me the rules of the game. Or if I were in a Scream movie, I answered the phone only to be asked “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

I didn’t have a choice about whether I wanted to play. Just by pressing the button, I was already part of it. Only in my dream, I never got to the point where Ghostface showed up to gut me. I was just shown the game.

Perform or die.

The dream was short. Ambiguous. But it did its job as the opening act. It got my attention. I needed to keep watching to see what happens next. I needed to find out who the new Ghostface of this story was.

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Act I was exciting. The news media is talking about a murder in town, and everyone begins speculating who did it. Who were the suspects? What was their motive?

For me, that looked like my brain only being able to think about this dream. It was an intriguing plot. But I needed to know why. I started brainstorming. I brain dumped everything. I even outlined an entire short story around the idea.

And just when I decided to start writing it, Ghostface showed up and dragged his knife across my idea’s throat until it bled out. I took that as a sign. I needed to dig deeper. There was something more here. I could feel it in my bones. Something that spoke to my very real life experiences around the concept of performance. So I decided to make it into a whole ass book.

I started listening to all the novel-writing podcasts, reading all the books about writing a book, and convinced myself I needed to learn everything there was to know before I was even allowed to begin.

That’s when analysis paralysis set in.

You know that part in a Scream movie where you have no idea who the killer is? Everyone becomes a suspect.

I didn’t know which advice to follow. Was it Save the Cat? The three-act structure? First person? Third?

Finally, I decided to channel that Gale Weathers energy and push forward. I just started writing. I gave myself permission to begin even though I didn’t have all the answers. It took me six long months to write Act I. Six months to painfully learn the purpose of a first draft. To watch things pan out in ways I didn’t expect. To get stabbed repeatedly by Ghostface but survive by learning something new each time.

The first lesson nearly killed me.

Don’t try to make the first chapter perfect.

I rewrote my opening three times. Three. And guess what? When I finally reached the end of the novel and reread it, I realized it was all wrong anyway. It took me writing the end to learn how it should begin. That doesn’t mean I’m a horrible writer. It simply means I didn’t understand the full story yet.

As I kept going, I hit another wall. When I started writing the book I had an overall idea of certain events that took place, but I didn’t know how I would get to them. After the first few chapters without a roadmap, I got stuck. That is when I realized I needed a real plan. I was faced with the ultimate question authors are asked all the time:

Am I a pantser or a plotter?

I saw myself as a plotter. As someone who struggles with anxiety, not knowing what comes next literally terrifies me. I’m someone who needs to know the plan to function. I don’t like the chaos of not knowing.

Or so I thought.

I ended up turning to more craft books. I read Story Genius, and it helped me understand my main protagonist on a deeper level. I developed her backstory, her misbelief, and all the reasons why she makes the choices she does. It also showed me how to use scene cards to map out each scene.

But when I tried to plan every scene, something unexpected happened. The characters decided to surprise me and take a different course of action. I would spend so much time planning each scene and trying to stay within those parameters, but it was a waste of time for me. I felt lost, creatively boxed in, frustrated even. I started to wonder if I was even capable of moving forward. Just when I thought I knew who Ghostface was, they showed up and killed that suspect, aka the plotter persona I tried to play.

It was ironic. The woman who needs to always be one step ahead in everyday life to function needed to release control to write her book. Now I wouldn’t classify myself as a full-on pantser. I still need some type of outline. I decided to use loose outlines, with just a couple sentences for each scene. This allowed me to move forward and, quite frankly, was fun. I flew through most of Act II once I stopped trying to control everything. To be honest, I wasn’t exactly sure how Act III would go and discovered it while writing Act II.

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I did come to another halt when it was time to write the chapters for the second POV. She is technically a second protagonist. Her role isn’t as forward facing as my main girl but still her story is just as important. When I did my character work in early Act I, I did not focus on my second protagonist, and that came around to bite me in the ass when it was time to write her chapters. That brought me to another lesson..

Know your characters deeply. Know your main characters backstory, including the antagonist.

It’s so important to spend time with them and figure out who they were before they stepped into your story. And yes, that means writing backstories, origin stories, core turning points to discover what led them to their misbelief. Most of that will not be in the book, but it will help you understand the character and write from their view of the world and in their unique voice. (Side note, for Act I and II I wrote and focused on one POV at a time. That allowed me to truly live in their voice and story without having to bounce back and forth. By the third act, I knew them well enough to be able to alternate.)

I was finally moving forward with the story, but my attention was being pulled in too many different directions. I wasn’t able to give 100% to anything. I couldn’t keep going like that.

I had to focus on one thing at a time and minimize the distractions.

I was doing way too much. Trying to build my social media presence, writing short stories, posting weekly on Substack, maintaining a huge garden I started from seed. On top of that, I have a full-time job. I’m a mom and a wife. The list goes on.

I had to get serious with myself. Was I going to let Ghostface kill this book, or was I going to fight back?

If you know me, I’m a fighter. The first thing to go was social media. The posting and the consuming. It took up too much space in my head, and I hated the way it made me feel anyway. That alone made my mental health better.

Then I cut the rest of the noise. No more short stories. Less TV. Less podcasts. I didn’t need something filling every moment. I needed quiet. Because all that noise was fogging up my brain and making it harder to think clearly.

Now, I still had to keep my full-time job, so I needed a realistic writing schedule.

One that actually fit my life. I couldn’t write every day. On days I went into the office, my brain was fried by the time I got home. So I committed to four days a week. Whether I felt like it or not, I showed up. I set word count goals. I didn’t always hit them, but they kept me going.

Finally, I was building momentum. Every writing day I was moving the needle. I was dodging all the Ghostface attacks but still didn’t know who it was.

Then I got to Act III, where a lot of action was taking place, and I quickly realized I don’t know anything about writing a fight scene. I didn’t want to lose momentum trying to learn a new skill, so I left a placeholder. I wrote the bones and kept going.

Why spend so much time perfecting something that might not even survive revisions?

That’s when I learned momentum matters more than perfection in a first draft.

After all the lessons and stab wounds, I finally reached my final girl moment. I typed the last words of the draft.

Still standing. Still breathing. Bleeding.

And that’s when I finally understood the purpose of the first draft.

THE FIRST DRAFT IS YOU TELLING YOURSELF THE STORY

I did not fully understand my story until I finished writing it. Hell, I don’t think I even knew half the things were going to happen until I wrote them. Once I embraced the concept of the shitty first draft, I gave myself permission to write badly so I could actually get to know my story. And it’s one that I truly love. So much of my heart is in it. And now that it’s done, I realize it’s perfect for one simple reason.

IT EXISTS.

But even after finishing the draft, there was something else I couldn’t shake. A feeling I carried throughout the entire process. Something I had to face time after time.

Self doubt.

It’s the voice that questions everything. The voice that keeps whispering, not good enough. The voice that makes you want to start over or quit.

Mine would tell me all the reasons I’m not a real writer. My writing is too simple. It doesn’t sound intelligent enough. Who do you think you are to write a book? No one cares. It will go nowhere.

I kept waiting for the reveal. Waiting to unmask Ghostface. And when I finally did, it wasn’t a psycho boyfriend, or a jealous, fame-seeking cousin, or a crazy super fan.

It was JUST ME.

I’m proud of myself for pushing through and winning the battle that was draft one. But the truth is, she will never disappear. She’ll be waiting for me in draft two.

Only this time, I’ll be two steps ahead of her. Knife in hand.

And I’ll know how to keep writing.

Bite Me

I didn’t know love could be so free.
I thought it was meant to be earned.
Nothing in life is free,
so you must give it perfectly
if you want to receive.
But not with you.
You give it freely,
never holding my imperfections against me.

You see me as I am
and who I want to be.
You are the mirror
that reflects belief back to me.

When darkness tries to wrap my heart,
you steal color from your own
and rip it apart.

You held the prism that is me
up to the sun,
and my quiet white light
broke into color
and burned bright.

You are one of a kind.
I’m lucky
our threads aligned.

You are my best friend,
like cheese and crackers,
better together
every time.

You stand six feet tall.
I barely reach five (ish).
When you fold me into you,
your heartbeat
steadies mine.

I didn’t know a person
could feel like a place.

Every night I dream.
If you are not there,
I run back
at full speed,
prying my eyelids open
because ordinary with you
is more than enough.

And if it turns out
you are Dracula,
fine.
Bite me.
As long as I get forever with you.

Happy Birthday Armando!

When I think about this past year, I picture myself stepping into a new room of my haunted house. One I was finally brave enough to open. Standing there, I can feel all the versions of me bouncing off the walls and moving through me. Nothing is quiet in that room. Everything echoes.

The longer I stood in that room, I started to notice the patterns. Certain versions of me showed up louder than the rest. The one who writes but is still searching for her voice. The one who needs to move her body to feel grounded and build confidence. The one who wants to encourage others even while she is still figuring things out herself. The one who people-pleases no matter how hard she tries not to. The one who holds in her true feelings to keep the peace. The one who doubts herself. The one who needs to turn pain into something meaningful and pass it on.

Some echoes passed through me with ease. Others smashed into me again and again, until I was on my knees. She hadn’t held much power in past years, but she was always there, trailing behind me from room to room. Now she demanded to be acknowledged.

The writer.

She stood over me and extended her hand. With hesitation, I grabbed it and let her pull me to my feet. We walked hand in hand as I navigated this new passion of mine. I finally stopped circling the idea of being a writer and stepped into it. I wrote essays, short stories, reflection pieces, newsletters, mini stories, and even started a novel. I shared my writing before I felt ready. They say to act like the future you want already exists, so that’s what I did. I wrote. I created habits. I stuck to strict schedules that I designed and enforced myself. There was no one hovering over me telling me what to do, no one motivating me. Just me and my discipline. While the echo of my writer dreams finally demanded my attention, it was the echo of my past perseverance and tenacity that propelled me forward.

As I moved through the year writing and experimenting, I found myself feeling a bit lost. My writing styles and voice felt scattered, all over the place. But by continuing to write, I started to learn what I liked and what I didn’t. And in doing that, I slowly began to find my voice. That part was tricky. The fear of my most authentic self not being accepted by others was always there. I called myself a horror writer, but what I learned is that my stories aren’t loud or flashy. They live in the quiet. They are the whispers that echo in our minds. The deep emotions and subtle horrors of the human experience are what I’m drawn to writing about.

And while I learned that my writing won’t be for everyone, it has to be something I enjoy creating. When I looked back at my work, I realized my voice had been there all along. I just had to stop overthinking it and let it be.

As I listened to the echo of the writer, another one stepped in beside us and linked her arm through my other side. We stood there intertwined. This echo had been with me for years and she knew her power.

Movement.

When the echoes of writing and everyday life became too loud for me to handle, movement became my anchor. I need to move my body to survive my own mind at times. It allows me to breathe and builds my confidence in ways nothing else ever has. Movement will forever be my medicine. Medicine for my anxiety, my self-doubt, and a way to clear out the noise. As someone who lives in her head a lot, writing put me back there even more than usual. So I used movement as a way to get out of my head and back into my body. I also used movement to build confidence. When I lift weights I never imagined I could, I’m showing my brain that I can do hard things. That I am stronger than I think. And that strength spills into other areas of my life.

When movement pulled me out of my head and back into my body, I felt strong enough to look outward again. And that’s when another echo made itself known.

The helper.

When I felt strong, grounded, and clear, I wanted to pass that feeling on. I wanted to encourage others. To let them know they were stronger than they thought. That they were capable of building habits to reach any goal, big or small. I wanted people to know that they mattered. I encouraged them to choose joy, to love themselves more, and to remember that even though the world around us may feel chaotic, we can still find peace, love, and joy.

But the more I shared my daily encouraging videos, the more I felt the need to perform. I began placing my self-worth in the hands of an algorithm and strangers on the internet. Encouraging others felt good. It still does. But over time, I realized I wasn’t always practicing what I preached. Sometimes I was saying things because I thought that’s what people wanted to hear, or what might earn me an empty double tap of a digital heart.

And I didn’t realize it then, but that’s when the echo of my people-pleasing past began to seep back in. The one who doesn’t know how to say no, so others take advantage. The one who is scared to challenge people because I’m afraid it’ll cost me the relationship. Abandonment issues, am I right?

I found myself slipping back into old habits. Staying quiet. Suppressing my true feelings. Just trying to keep the peace because I couldn’t handle any more chaos. But toward the end of the year, that blew up in my face, like it always does, and I had another anxiety attack. Not fun.

And while I let the echo of the people pleaser creep back in, her best friend piggybacked right along with her and latched onto me.

Greta.
My inner gremlin.

That bitch will not leave me alone. No matter how many times I’ve killed her, she finds a way to resurrect. Self-doubt is something I’ve struggled with for as long as I can remember. It can make me feel small. Worthless. Greta has a sneaky way of taking over, usually showing up as self-sabotage. The dream of writing a book has lived in my heart for years, but every time I thought about it, Greta was there to tell me I wasn’t smart enough. And for a long time, I listened. So it makes sense that when I finally decided to be brave and step into new territory, she did everything she could to stop me.

But here’s the thing I’m only just realizing now as I type this. Greta isn’t evil. She’s trying to keep me safe.

Greta is my anxiety.

And while she has influenced my writing in many ways, I’m slowly learning how to take the mic away from her. She doesn’t like movement or dance much, so I use those as tools. Walking while I write. Letting my body move so my mind can quiet down. It’s become my secret weapon when I’m working on my book.

Greta loves alcohol and THC. They fueled her and amplified her, especially THC, in dangerous ways. It’s been about six months without both of those things, and I am incredibly proud of myself for that. All of this is to say, I’m realizing she will probably always be a part of me. I just need to stop letting her lead.

Anxiety, self-doubt, people-pleasing, the helper. Those echoes didn’t just want to be heard. They wanted somewhere to land. Writing became the place where pain could move instead of bouncing endlessly inside me. Where experience could be broken down, reshaped, and passed forward so it didn’t stay lodged in my chest. Speaking my truth out loud has never come easily to me, but writing has become my outlet. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until I started letting myself use it this way. I write to process, to make sense of things, and to give my pain somewhere to go instead of carrying it alone.

And I share it not just as a form of therapy for myself, but to remind others they aren’t alone. If you’re like me and tend to process pain quietly and internally, it can feel isolating. I want my writing to be a reminder that you’re not broken. That you matter. That your feelings are valid. That we have more in common than we think.

This year I learned that the echoes that followed me into this new room, this new version of myself, will follow me into the next chapter too. They don’t disappear. No matter how hard we try to silence or erase them, they live quietly in our subconscious. What I’ve realized is that it’s up to us how much power we give them.

I used to think that closing my cookie business (ArmStina’s Cookies) was a failure. That I was a failure. I closed that chapter of my life and moved on. Never looked back. Tucked those memories deep in the cave of my subconscious. The place that holds all the ghosts of my past. The place that even holds some memories hostage which is why I have huge memory gaps. Sorry… that’s a tangent for another time and also a big piece of my book. 🤪

Anyways, what I’m trying to say is that I carried a lot of shame about closing the business. I lived in that shame for a couple years and absolutely dreaded when people asked, “Why did you stop doing cookies?”

But it’s been about a year now since my cookie ghost emerged from the cave. She came back to remind me that those years of my life were not a failure. She reminded me that she was the woman who taught me how to build something from nothing. She reminded me how brave I am, how to bet on myself. That I am strong, resilient, and smart AF. And even when I don’t know the answer, I put my head down, do the work, and figure it out.

Honestly, without her reminding me of all my greatness, I’m not sure I would have ever been brave enough to step into the writing world and start my first book. She even inspired one of the characters in it.

So I’ve decided to let her have a few weeks front and center every December. Last year was totally unplanned, but I see now that she forced her way through to remind me of the joy baking, decorating, and gifting cookies brings me. I’m excited to live in the cookie world for a little bit as I close out this year.

And if you have any ghosts of your past you try to keep buried, I encourage you to look at the good things they gave you. A lot of times we think failure is the end, but really it’s the beginning. As long as we’re willing to look for the lessons and bring them along on our next adventure.

Oh and one more thing…
This year I wanted to share some of my cookies with you. As a thank-you for supporting my writing, I’m giving away a baker’s dozen of classic ArmStina’s Cookies vanilla mini Christmas cookies to one subscriber of The Dark Petal.

If you’re already a subscriber, you’re automatically entered.
If you’re new here, just subscribe with your email below to join in.

The giveaway closes December 10th, and I’ll announce the winner in my December 13th newsletter.

**Shipping is available only within the continental United States.

I am finally writing the part of my book that the story was inspired by. Each day I give myself a word count goal and do whatever it takes to get it done. Some days that means writing for a half hour three different times. Other days it’s killing two birds with one stone and walking while writing. Or it’s four hours of straight writing with a few breaks sprinkled throughout.

In the past ten days I’ve written about 11,000 words, which is more than I’ve ever written in a month since starting this book. So what’s changed? Why am I able to write more now? I stopped creating detailed scene cards for each scene and started using a loose outline as a guide instead. I also stopped editing as I wrote and stopped trying to write pretty.

While that shift has helped me move forward, it has also brought me into a daily battle with my inner gremlin, Greta. Every single day after writing I feel both accomplished and discouraged. It’s as if Greta grows louder with each word I put down. Whenever I tell myself how proud I am for hitting my goal, Greta is right there saying, “Yeah, but the writing sucked. It’s too simple. It’s ugly.” When I let myself say how much I love this story and can’t wait to finish it, she responds with, “It’s not original. It’s been done before.”

There have been times when I read a little of The Bird’s Nest by Shirley Jackson and come back to my draft only for Greta to greet me with, “You’ll never be as good as her. Just give up. Why bother? The chances of getting traditionally published are next to none.”

The inside of my head is chaos. Between living in my story and my constant knife fights with Greta, it can be a lot. But each day I show up despite the noise and doubts, I am teaching myself that I do belong.

I’ve also printed out everything I’ve written so far and will keep doing that with each chapter. It’s a physical reminder of everything I’ve accomplished. My manuscript receipts, I like to call them. I keep reminding myself that I didn’t come this far to only come this far.

Bottom line…I absolutely love my story, and a huge piece of my heart is being written into it. I will finish this book and get it published. I don’t know if that means traditionally or self-publish. I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know this: all I have is now.

So I will keep showing up even though Greta will be waiting for me, knife in hand. And if I show up and fight back enough times, I know I can kill that bitch. Like I said before, I will be the final girl of my own story.

This year I’ve felt like a mad scientist in my creative lab with many experiments I planned at the beginning of the year. Write one piece of writing a month, post motivational and positive content, grow an entire garden from seed, get stronger and lift heavier weights. Those were just a few of the experiments I worked on all at once. The results were filled with discoveries, breakthroughs, and even sparks that advanced my creativity.

On one side of the lab I was a writing wizard and kept creating all kinds of things. Short stories, personal essays, and even the beginnings of a novel. On the other side I was planting seeds, watering them, and tending to my garden. In the very early hours of the morning before the sun even rose, I worked on my body. Each week I lifted heavier weights, each week it was more food and more work. The other part of the lab was all about social media. I had to post. What was I going to post today? Would it do well? I must feed the algorithm. Would the algorithm like me today? I recorded daily videos and tried to be natural, but I always felt the pressure.

All of the experiments were starting to explode one by one. I kept forgetting one key ingredient while juggling them all. The chemicals splashed onto me, suffocating me, begging for my full attention. Pick me. Pick me. Each one called out. I will make you happy. And so I kept going, running around trying to perfect everything. But the more I tried to do it all, the more scattered I felt, as if oxygen had forgotten how to reach my brain. I was hanging on for dear life, telling myself, I am strong. I can do it. Just keep going.

Until one night, out of nowhere, my novel experiment began to fizzle out. It lost its dim and I began to panic. “No no no. I haven’t spent much time on you. You cannot leave me.”

“You must choose,” it whispered. “Either give me all your attention, or give me none and let me die.”

I wanted to give my writing and my novel my full attention, but deep down I still had doubts, and my inner monsters began to present their case as to why I couldn’t do it. They shouted things like: You’re not smart enough. No one is ever going to want to read your book. It won’t even matter. The story isn’t strong. Your writing is too voicey, no one is going to like that. Save that dream for another lifetime. This version of you cannot handle it.

And for a second I began to believe them. But then I took a break from the lab and sat in silence for weeks. As my mind began to clear, my voice grew stronger and my desires became clear. I must choose, I told myself.

And so I entered the lab again only to find my novel scattered on the floor in pieces. I ran to it and started stitching it back together one piece at a time, bringing life back to it. I spent days on a rough outline for the entire book, leaving room for exploration. I developed character sheets and started crafting scene cards one at a time. I even put together a writing schedule that was realistic with my life. I went all in and started using Scrivener to organize and shape my novel.

But I still found myself a little lost with all the other experiments clinging to life. Do I throw them out all together? Do I bring them along for the ride but tone them down? Or better yet, do I find a way to bridge them and connect them? The truth is, I am not entirely sure yet. I’ve worked so hard on all of my experiments that I am not ready to leave them permanently.

All I know is that right now I will prioritize my writing and stick to its schedule. It will be a process to build that habit, but I am willing to put in the work. And if there is one thing I do well, it is building a habits so I can achieve an important goal. As I transition into this new phase of the lab that is my life, I will continue to remind myself that it’s okay to slow down, to focus on one thing, to rest between experiments. Every mad scientist must learn patience in the space between what was and what comes next.

Thanks for reading! Do you ever feel like a mad scientist in your own life?

Starting September 13, I’ll be sending out a free monthly newsletter with haunted essays, eerie stories, book progress, and the horror things I’ve been loving. Consider it another door into the haunted house of my writing. Subscribe if you’d like to join me.

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But lately, I’ve started listening to a different voice. It’s quieter and afraid, but it doesn’t go away. It pulls me toward the page, toward stories, toward the shadows I’ve tried to avoid. It feels unsettling and thrilling all at once. It even followed me into a dream I had while on vacation, where the world was ending and my greatest regret was not finishing my book. That dream clings to me still, haunting the edges of my subconscious. For the first time, I feel myself shifting, not back into the roles I once played, but into something new that is taking shape through the stories I write.

Stepping away from social media these past couple of weeks made that shift impossible to ignore. Without the constant noise of posting and scrolling, I could finally hear the pull more clearly. At first, the silence was uncomfortable, almost like standing in an unfamiliar room. But in that quiet, I realized the one thing I wanted to focus on was writing, especially horror.

But choosing writing doesn’t mean the past disappears. The silence that cleared space for my voice also made room for the ghosts. They slip in when I sit down to write, patient and familiar, like shadows that never left. One by one, they step forward.

The Motivator. She is the easiest to spot, a ghost that has followed me since my teenage years. She counts everything in numbers and milestones, always demanding the next achievement. No matter how high she climbs, the bar rises again. She is a mad scientist in the dark, chasing breakthroughs that promise to validate her worth and unlock happiness shaped by the world’s relentless hunger for more. But the longer she works, the more she burns herself hollow. True happiness slips further away and her shadow only deepens. She lingers still, watching from the corners.

The Entrepreneur. The Motivator’s daughter, the one who had the courage to bet on herself. She baked until her hands ached, chasing approval through work and output. The hours were long, the pay almost nothing, but she tasted freedom outside the corporate world. That freedom was a gift she never fully appreciated. It also carried a curse. Endless hours of isolation, too much silence, and the slow unraveling that comes from living inside the darker corners of her mind. Even now, her shadow waits in the quiet.

The Pleaser. She twisted herself into knots to keep others comfortable, losing pieces of herself with every contortion. She never said no, even when it left her anxious and withered. She smiled so no one would see the storm inside, desperate for love that always felt just out of reach. Her worth lived in the eyes of others, until they consumed her completely and left nothing behind but bones tangled in a noose. Her whisper follows me into every room.

The Positivity Mask. The one who smiled on the outside even when the words felt false. She grinned wide enough to hide the cracks, her voice always cheerful, always encouraging, even when it rang hollow. People loved her videos and urged her to keep going, to do it for those who needed the light. But the weight of constant performance left her no room for anger, no room to fall apart, no room to admit she was drowning. The mask became a distraction too, pulling her away from her true desires. Each time she wore it, it grew heavier, until it fused to her skin and became her face. Her silence is louder than her cheer.

The Dreamer. The most haunting of all. The one who held her dreams close but never spoke them aloud, afraid they would dissolve in the light. Her imagination is vivid, her heart full of stories, but the dreams only reveal themselves when she feels ready to see them. Now she dreams of becoming a published author of many books. She is not naive. She knows it will take hard work and require her full attention. She understands there are rules to play by, like building a presence and shaping an identity. She has waited the longest, lingering in the shadows, and now her whisper is the loudest of them all.

But listening to her doesn’t silence the others. They circle me when I write, their whispers overlapping until I can’t always tell which voice is mine. Following the Dreamer is thrilling, but unnerving too, because every step forward feels like walking deeper into a house where the walls keep shifting. My gut keeps telling me to follow her, even though I don’t have the answers and there is no guarantee it will lead anywhere.

Maybe I open one door only to be trapped by my inner gremlin Greta, who holds the knife I once stabbed her with. She smiles as she embraces me, gloating that she knew I would return. Or maybe the Pleaser and the Positivity Mask team up, dragging me into a room where I must perform and perform until I lose my grip on who I really am.

Despite not knowing which ghosts wait behind the doors, I feel the pull to write my novel and my short stories. I want to commit fully to the identity of a horror author. That means shifting how I create, and doing it on my terms.

Part of this shift means leaning into horror writing content. I want to create a new cadence here with a monthly newsletter that blends what I’m writing with what I’m living. Each one will carry echoes of my ghosts alongside personal reflections, short horror-inspired stories, updates on my book, and maybe some horror movie and book recommendations. I am also shifting my social media to reflect this focus, creating spaces where I can share my writing process, horror themes, and the strange inspiration that fuels my stories. It feels like another door I am opening, one that leads to a ghost I have never met before — the Horror Author.

This is also the moment to let go of the old name. Think Happy Thoughts no longer fits who I am becoming. Like the ghosts of my past selves, it lingers, but it does not belong to me anymore. I’ve stepped into a different house now, one where the rooms are lined with shadows and the stories bloom in the dark.

This space is becoming The Dark Petal, a place where we bloom through the hauntings we carry.

I invite you to come with me as I step inside this haunted house, my ghosts at my side as I continue to open doors to the unknown. Will it be scary and messy? Of course. Will I close doors and open new ones along the way? Absolutely. But I’m learning that there is beauty in the unknown. We are both our light and our shadows, and I want to explore that here through my writing. So I leave you with this.

The haunting of becoming is learning that your shadows never leave. You carry them with you, and sometimes, they’re the ones holding the lantern.

Lately, I’ve been using all of my spare time, which isn’t much, to work on my novel. The journey from just believing in myself enough to start writing to where I am now has been anything but a straight line. It’s more like the Hagrid’s Motorbike Adventure roller coaster at Universal. You take off fast, heading straight, and then suddenly you’re twisting and turning and it feels like you might fly off the rails. Just when it seems like you’ve reached the top, the track yanks you backward into a dark tunnel full of monsters. I like to call my monster Greta.

Then, just when you think you’ve defeated your monster, the ground is pulled from beneath you and suddenly you’re dropping faster than you went up. Then you rush forward again, full speed, thinking this time you’ve got it. And then the whole cycle starts over.

I’m not even sure I’ll ever get off the ride, and quite frankly, I don’t want to. I’m proud of myself for being brave enough to get on, even without knowing how it would end. But I’ll be honest, there have been many times when my monster, Greta, tries to pull me off.

But that unicorn you see toward the end of the ride? That’s what keeps me on. That’s my why.

I started my writing journey about eight months ago, and now I’m realizing it was more than just a writing journey. It was me breaking out of my old mold and into something new. Like a snake shedding its skin. It was a pivotal moment in my life. I guess we can call it an evolution. A new version of myself. I believe that as we age, we’ll continue to evolve and become many versions of ourselves.

For me, it started with a debilitating anxiety attack. One that had been building slowly, one negative brick at a time. And then…BAM! It all came crashing down and collapsed on itself. I laid there, covered in the toxic bricks, gasping for air.

I had two options: stay there and live the rest of my life with a cloud of negative dust following me everywhere, or pull myself out of the rubble and start moving toward something brighter, even if I didn’t know what it was yet.

The first thing I did for myself was get a tattoo on my arm. And not a tiny one that could easily be covered. A big, bold, beautiful witch. It was liberating. That was the spark that lit my voice. A voice I didn’t know I had or even wanted.

It started with daily Instagram stories where I shared my workouts and the little lessons I picked up along the way. Then it evolved into reels of me lifting weights with motivating text layered over them. Eventually, I started posting clips of me being silly and dancing. That was something I never would have done before. I was learning to love myself. And that led to me believing in myself, which is what started my journey as a writer.

I began sharing my writing on Substack and Instagram. I wrote mostly personal reflections, essays, and recapped most of my cookie business journey. I also started working on my first fictional book. And it was getting me attention.

Let’s be honest. Everyone loves and craves attention, whether we like to admit it or not. Wanting to be seen, heard, and validated is a normal part of the human experience. But it can become dangerous if we let it take over.

I started posting more on social media, trying to play by its rules. Create for the algorithm and you’ll be rewarded with views and likes. Fake dopamine is what I’m learning to call it.

My focus began to shift toward content creation, and it took up so much of the most valuable currency we all have: time. It took me forever to create content because I overthink everything. My self-worth became tangled with how well the content performed and what strangers thought of me. Low views? That must mean I suck at writing, I’m terrible at speaking, and apparently I’m ugly too. No one cares what I’m saying or writing about, so why bother? It doesn’t matter. *Just a little peek inside my brain.

I kept trying to create content based on what I thought would perform well. Instead of fully stepping into the new version of myself, I was falling back into old habits. Habits filled with self-doubt, people pleasing and one where anxiety started to take the lead. My creativity suffered as a result, and I found myself writing less and less, especially when it came to the novel.

I began consuming more THC to try and numb those negative emotions. But for me, it only made things worse. It’s now been four weeks without it, and my mental state has improved so much. That’s something I may share more about when I feel ready.

At this point, I truly believe the old version of me and the new version I’m trying to become are at war with each other. Which brings me back to the unicorn. My secret weapon. My why. It’s twofold.

When I first ignited the spark in my voice, I wanted to use it to spread positivity, joy, and motivation. It was never supposed to be about feeding the algorithm. So I will continue to post content, but on my terms. I’m letting go of the pressure to show up just to keep up. That means some days I won’t post at all. Some days I’ll share what brings me joy, like pretty pictures of flowers or videos of my garden. Other days, I’ll share words of encouragement, reflections, or lessons I’ve learned along this journey we call life. That might be through pictures, a video, or in writing, like this post.

Because honestly, I need those reminders too. And if something I share helps someone or brings them joy, even if I never know it, it will all have been worth it.

But my why doesn’t end there. The rest lives in my writing.

When I first allowed myself to dream about becoming a writer, I wanted to write fiction. I wanted to use my imagination to create stories with characters that we can all relate to, especially women. I’ve lived a very, let’s say, interesting life, and I wanted to use my experiences to shape a book. One that is fictional, yes, but also carries a powerful message. A message that, truthfully, I’m still learning myself.

That message is that your self-worth doesn’t come from others. It doesn’t come from social media or how many views or likes you get. It doesn’t come from any external factor. It comes from within. You have to learn to love yourself fully, because that is where your true power lives.

And honestly, part of it is just for me. To prove I could do it. To let myself have this writing dream.

So I will continue to show up. Not for the numbers. Not for approval. But for the unicorn I’m chasing, and everything she stands for.

Remember those dark moments when you weren’t sure if you'd make it? When you didn’t know how you could continue living each day with those anxiety goggles on? But here you are, Christina. You're doing it. You're slowly but surely breaking free from the chains that once held you down. Be proud of yourself, and don’t forget to continue loving yourself every single day.

Let’s start a new tradition: reflecting on the past year of life and the lessons you’ve learned along the way. And it starts today.

The past year has been full of ups and downs. Looking back through pictures, everything may have appeared like sunshine and rainbows on the outside, but you know your mind didn’t always let you see that light. I’m proud of you for going to therapy and working on yourself. Yes, you stopped going, but you learned so much about how your trauma still affects your daily life. Your childhood was chaotic, and your nervous system doesn’t know how to handle life when it’s not calm and predictable. That’s why you tend to worry about everything, fear the unknown, and automatically think of the worst-case scenario. Living life this way, you couldn’t sleep, you always had a headache, and your mind was constantly focused on the negative. But this year, you learned a very important lesson…

You become what you think about. When you focus on the negative, that’s all you’ll see. This is a simple but powerful lesson. Your thoughts create your world. So, you slowly started working on intentionally looking for the positive. By focusing on the good, even when it’s hard, you’re rewiring your brain to see possibility instead of fear. Continue to remind yourself every day to THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS, so that even when life happens (because it will), you won’t be shackled by the anxiety goggles and will still be able to see the beauty in life. I am proud of you for putting in the work to rewire your brain. That is not easy but you are making so much progress. Keep going!

OMG! You finally started writing this past year. Remember all the doubts and negative things you’d tell yourself for over a year? Things like, “I’m not smart enough to write a book. Who do I think I am to even have that dream? I don’t have any writing background, and honestly, I suck at it. A writer? Ha, maybe in another life.”

This is the rough timeline of how things shifted this year: You finally said your dream out loud. You told Armando, and then Diana. And guess what? They didn’t think you were crazy—quite the opposite. They encouraged you. But just because they encouraged you didn’t mean you started writing immediately. You had to believe in yourself first. You continued to say you’d start for months, then something shifted after the panic attack you had the day after the election. You spoke up, and that lit a tiny spark. You found your voice and realized that if change was what you wanted, you had to do it yourself. No one is coming to save you, and there will never be a perfect time to start.

It’s a reminder that, while support and inspiration from others are valuable, the responsibility to take action and put in the work ultimately falls on you. But you’ve been here before. Remember quitting your job and running a cookie business from your tiny apartment and then your house? Or the garden you literally started from seed last year? Sometimes you forget that. Stop forgetting the things you’ve already accomplished and the skills you’ve learned throughout your life. You are a strong woman who is capable of anything you set your mind to.

Okay, back to the timeline. You had a severe panic attack and decided enough was enough. You couldn’t keep complaining about your job or dueling over the fact that the U.S. elected a convicted felon over an overqualified woman. You needed change. But you still didn’t start writing then. Instead, you got a badass witch tattoo on your forearm. Just months earlier, you’d thought that getting a tattoo on your arm would look unprofessional, but you loved them and really wanted one. You were worried about corporate America’s bias against women with tattoos. You said, "Fuck it. This is MY BODY, and I’ll do whatever the hell I want with it." And so you got the tattoo. That tiny ember of your voice grew into a flame. You rediscovered your strength and confidence and wrote your first piece of writing ever. And it’s called Witch Tattoo.

But here’s the thing: you didn’t continue writing consistently. The holidays came around, and you decided to focus on that — wanting to bake cookies for everyone. No regrets there, as it brought you back to the joy you once had around cookies. After the holidays, you picked up your laptop and decided to try again. You quickly realized that writing is hard, and it takes time. You realized that, like everything else, you have to accept that you’ll suck in the beginning and that failure is part of the process. You had to get comfortable being uncomfortable.

You haven’t been on that thorny growth path in a while, so it was hard at first. But you thrive there and love growth. You listened to the audiobook Atomic Habits by James Clear and learned that, in order to build a habit, you have to start small to get quick wins. Your version of starting small was daily Instagram stories, where you wrote a few sentences mainly about fitness and mental health. It helped build the habit, and then you started writing at least twice a week.

It’s been about a month and a half now, and you tend to either pick up a book or write whenever you have free time instead of watching TV. The only thing you watch now is wrestling. That’s a major change, and you should be proud of yourself.

The next lesson to carry into year 38 is to not believe in imposter syndrome. It’s a lie. Those thoughts of “I’m not good enough” or “I don’t belong here” are just fear trying to hold you back. The truth is, you’re worthy of your success, your voice, and your creativity. The journey of writing isn’t about being perfect from the start; it’s about showing up, embracing the process, and trusting that you’re more than capable. So, when those feelings of inadequacy show up (and they will), remind yourself that they’re just that—feelings. They don’t define you, and they certainly don’t stop you. Keep moving forward, one word at a time.

But you didn’t stop at just building a writing habit. You were brave again and started a Substack account to share your writing with the world. You taught yourself how to use the platform and have started posting weekly. You decided to be unapologetically delusional about your dreams and started acting like the writer you want to be. You will write books one day, but first, you’re learning how to write and holding yourself accountable with weekly posts. Good for you. You’ve defied the odds before, and you can do it again. I believe in you—please continue to believe in yourself.

Remember that believing in yourself is half the battle. Sometimes we believe a narrative about ourselves based on our own limiting beliefs. But you can do this, Christina. Your voice matters, and you have a unique story to tell. Don’t let the fear of failing hold you back. Keep going!

You also have a whole new relationship with food now. Over the past few months, Armando has taught you a lot about the food you consume. Being healthy doesn't mean achieving a certain weight or following Emily's diet from The Devil Wears Prada — you know, the one where she doesn’t eat anything until she’s about to pass out and then eats a cube of cheese. It's actually the opposite, and much simpler. You just need to eat balanced meals made of mostly whole foods. You need to make sure you're consuming enough calories, protein, carbs, and fat — yes, more carbs! Tracking your food while building this habit helped bring awareness to everything you eat. You actually need to eat a lot more than you thought, which surprised you. Movement is also important, but you've known that for a while now. The key takeaway is this: if you put garbage into your body, you’ll feel like garbage. Garbage foods are the processed junk filled with chemicals that don’t fill you and end up making you even hungrier. You can still treat yourself to unhealthy things, but it's all about balance. Also, drink more water. Seriously, drink more water, and start working on building that habit today.

Let’s talk about other people’s opinions of you. As Rachel Hollis says, they are none of your business. Let me say it again because you can still struggle with this from time to time: OTHER PEOPLE’S OPINION OF YOU IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. If you spend your time thinking about what others think of you, you'll be miserable and turn into a chameleon. And sometimes, you assume people are talking about you, but you don’t know for sure. Most of the time, people are thinking about themselves.

You are happiest when you live authentically, embracing who you truly are: the nerdy woman who loves witchy vibes, reading romantic fantasy books, obsessing over flowers, not into makeup, believing in equal human rights for all, a homebody who loves wrestling, enjoys family time, and wants to write books. You can’t fully live authentically if you're always worrying about what others think, especially those whose values don’t align with yours.

You are ultimately responsible for your own happiness and the person you become, so stop letting the opinions of others dictate your self-esteem or your choices. Post on social media if you want, write your books, keep following your curiosity, and live your life on your terms. You only get one!

This leads me to the most important lesson you learned this year: LOVE YOURSELF!

You’ve struggled with this for some time now, but you’ve learned that the most important and longest relationship you will have is with yourself. So treat yourself with the same love and care you give to everyone else. Be kind to yourself, and give yourself grace when you fall off your goals or make mistakes. Because guess what? Life is not always going to be like a bright summer day. There will be rainstorms, but that’s the only way to see the rainbows. You’re still learning how to rewire your brain, so be patient with yourself. You’re still going to have bad moments, but don’t let those bad moments turn into bad days, bad weeks, bad months, etc. You do not need to be perfect. You are worthy of love and respect just the way you are.

Loving yourself also means setting boundaries. If your anxiety flares up and your energy is off around certain people, for whatever reason, limit those interactions. Protect your peace! I know that growing up, you wanted love from those who couldn’t give it to you or chose not to fight for you. You tend to build up an idea of something or someone, only to be disappointed. You do not need someone else’s love to be valued as a person or to feel worthy of love. Also, do not let society make you think you are somehow less valuable because you were born with a vagina and not a penis. Fuck the patriarchy!

And please, don’t forget to take care of yourself. Continue to eat healthy, work out, read, garden, and do things that are good for your physical, emotional, and mental well-being. I know when things get tough, you tend to be self-deprecating and start to self-sabotage. When you notice that gremlin showing up unannounced, tell it to get the fuck out of your house. Talk to yourself positively, on purpose. Tell yourself you look cute, thank your body every day, focus on the positive. You are a strong, beautiful, brave, quirky, smart, loving, caring badass woman! Don’t ever forget that.

I am so proud of you, Christina, and I love you!