📘 Finishing the Book Was Just the Beginning

aka: The part where I realize the mountain had several secret levels

When I started writing this memoir, I genuinely thought the hardest part would be finishing it. I imagined hitting that final word count and feeling like I’d just reached the summit of a grueling, years-long climb. And for a minute, I did. I stood at the top, wind in my hair, dramatically victorious in my pajamas.

But here’s the thing: finishing the book? It was just the tip of the iceberg.

Now I’m knee-deep in beta and sensitivity reading, final edits, proofing, and the most intimidating stage of all—marketing. Turns out, the actual mountain is the fear of being misunderstood. Or worse, ignored.

This book is my brain cracked open. It’s a decade-long chronicle of mental illness, filtered through dark humor, obsessive journaling, and a survival instinct that wouldn’t quit. Writing it felt like stitching together every version of myself I’ve been—from cocky teen to burned-out adult, from hopeful to hopeless and back again.

And now, I’m preparing to share it with the world. To hand it off to strangers and say, “Here. This is me. This is what it’s been like.”

And that’s terrifying.

Not because I’m afraid of being seen—but because I’m afraid of not being understood.

This memoir is for people like me—people living with OCD, PMDD, depression, chronic illness, or just a malfunctioning body and brain that refuses to cooperate with the world’s expectations. It’s not a redemption arc. It’s not a linear healing journey. It’s just an honest look at what it’s like to live in a body that’s constantly malfunctioning while everyone else expects you to perform strength.

In a world that applauds us only when we overcome, I wanted to write something about what it means to not overcome. About what it means to survive in the in-between—where the pain isn’t gone, but you’ve found a way to live with it. To make meaning from it. To laugh at it, sometimes. To keep going, even when you don’t want to.

If you’ve ever felt like your outside doesn’t match your inside—if you’ve ever been praised for being resilient while privately falling apart—I wrote this for you. If you’ve ever felt like a burden, like your life doesn’t fit in the neat boxes handed out by society, I wrote this for you too.

You are not alone. You’ve never been alone.

And while finishing this book didn’t give me the peace I hoped for, maybe—just maybe—putting it out there will.

If nothing else, I hope it finds the people who need it. The people who’ll read it and feel, for once, like someone finally said the quiet part out loud.