In 2011, I was serving as a U.S. Air Force combat meteorologist at Fort Bragg when a training jump went wrong, leaving me with a traumatic brain injury and lasting physical effects. In the months that followed—spent largely in darkness and disorientation—writing became the one thing I could still do.

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I began writing with my eyes closed, and still do to this day.

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What started as a way to hold onto my thoughts became something more. Months later, I discovered pages I had no memory of writing. One of those would eventually become part of my debut novel, Glass Prison—the beginning of a story that would grow over the next decade into a full trilogy.

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Years later, my life was changed again by the loss of my twenty-year-old son, Aidan.

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I carry his memory with me—woven into my days, my writing, and the tattoos I wear as a tribute to his life. Each one holds meaning: pieces of his story, his presence, and the connection that remains.

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I write now from a place shaped by both loss and resilience. From the stillness of central North Carolina, my work explores endurance, memory, and what it means to continue forward—even when something essential is missing.