Hi. I don’t know how you ended up here, but if you’re reading this, maybe something in you needed it. Maybe you’ve been carrying a kind of grief that doesn’t have a clear beginning or end. Maybe you’ve lost someone. Or maybe you’ve been losing pieces of yourself for a long time, quietly. Either way, I’m glad you’re here.

This blog, Sunflowers in December, grew out of the wreckage of my life. I lost my dad to suicide. Our relationship was complicated—he loved me, but not in the ways I needed. He broke promises and also showed up for gymnastics meets. He left a mess, both in the yard and in my heart.

There are days when I miss him so much it crushes my ribs. There are days when I’m angry he’s gone. And there are days when both of those truths live in my chest at the same time. This is where I let them speak. I write for anyone navigating the kind of grief that doesn’t fit inside sympathy cards. The grief that’s messy, unfinished, full of questions and anger and aching love. I write for people who have lost someone to suicide, or to silence, or to mental illness. For anyone who’s been told they’re “too sensitive” while trying to survive in a world that doesn’t stop hurting.

You’ll find poetry here.
Fragments.
Letters I never sent.
Stories from the wreckage.

If nothing else, I hope this space makes you feel less alone. Because you’re not. Not in your pain, not in your survival, and not in the weird, beautiful, feral process of healing.

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