Have you ever dreamed so big, so clear, so exciting, only to sabotage yourself the moment you started? Enter the usual suspects: resistance, procrastination, and self-doubt claiming their seat at the table, smirking as if daring you to make them leave. I know this scene well. Frustrated and discouraged, I’ve revisited it more times than I care to admit.

There have also been moments when I’ve shoved those gremlins aside – banished them to the back of the bus, and allowed myself to step into the driver’s seat. In those moments, I’ve achieved some well-earned goals.

I’m what I call an emotional digger, a kind of archaeologist of the self. Endlessly curious about who I am and what makes me tick. But whether it’s fear of failure or fear of success, those insecurities have found a way to bubble up to the surface. They have been my lifelong companions, annoying and persistent, yet oddly comforting in their familiarity. And while age and self-awareness have lessened their power over me, I occasionally find myself inviting them back for a brief nostalgic visit.

Writing has been my greatest challenge and deepest desire. As a child, I knew I wanted to tell my story, long before I had a story to tell. I dabbled in diaries and creative notes to my friends, and dreamed of being seen and heard. But the fear of rejection kept my creativity small, afraid to appear “too much.”

I was 13 when my mom died suddenly of a heart attack at 39, throwing my entire world into chaos. The grief, anger, despair and anguish were far too immense to process, and writing became my only solace. It became my safe haven. When everything around me felt too big, my spiral notebooks and my trusty thesaurus, always close at hand, could hold it all. The enormity of my emotions, my thoughts and my fears, and, most of all, the bigness of me.

I poured myself into poetry, short stories and thousands of journal entries. I wrote with an intensity and urgency, as if my life depended on it. And it did. Writing became my life raft and my oxygen mask. I’m certain writing kept me afloat and without it, I would have surely drowned.

Life marched on and so did I. Marriage, children, divorce and responsibilities all took precedence. Therapy and recovery for food and alcohol addiction brought me healing, and my passion for writing took a back seat. Yet the dream of writing a book never left me. Mixed with hope and doubt, I thought, who am I to write a book? What made me think I was worthy to tell my story?

In 2020, as the Covid-19 pandemic began, I found a writing coach and began to write again. I stumbled and balked. I wrote with purpose and joy. I resisted and cried. Self-doubt reared its head, and I swatted it away and kept going. The process was a dance of frustration and exhilaration, one step forward, two steps back.

In 2023 I enrolled in a course called Write Your Memoir in Six Months. At the same time I became certified as a Conscious Connected Breathwork facilitator, a powerful practice that releases trauma stored in the nervous system. It removed some of my emotional blocks that were holding me back..

I was paired with a writing buddy in the writing course who shared my need for accountability and connection. We met regularly on Zoom, even long after our class ended. Some days I showed up empty handed as I wrestled with my story, unsure of how to shape it, until December 2023. A day of clarity as I began to write about my heart attack.

Two years prior, I found myself at 58 – healthy, active, with no risk factors other than genetics – experiencing a heart attack.

My symptoms were subtle, almost dismissable: an odd electrical sensation shooting from my jaw to my ears, diminished as quickly as it came, and a dull ache at the base of my neck. Nothing screamed “heart attack,” but as a nurse, I trusted my intuition. I knew something was wrong. Women’s symptoms don’t always match the classic textbook cases, and because I understood this, I called 911.

Once I recovered, this personal truth about heart attacks ignited my writing. It felt urgent. Necessary. I needed to carry the message of a little-known healthcare truth: women often present differently than men when having a heart attack. I learned this lesson the hardest way possible and it became an imperative story to share. My mom, repeatedly misdiagnosed with a hiatal hernia, died suddenly of a heart attack at 39. Decades later, different symptoms, different causes, it happened to me.

My writing buddy encouraged me to write about my experience for this Magazine. In February 2024, just in time for Heart Health Month, my article, Saved By the Whisper of My Heart, was published. Sharing my story sparked something bigger. People urged me to expand on the topic, and suddenly, I had the direction for my book I had been waiting for.

That article became the seed of my mini-memoir, Listen to Your Heart Song: Navigating the Unexpected, published by Wildebeest Publishing and set to release on February 1, 2025 – again, just in time for Heart Health Month.

The journey to this point has been long, messy, and deeply rewarding. How did I finally do it? By staying in the arena, no matter how bruised, bloodied or defeated I felt. Years ago, in a recovery meeting, someone said, “Don’t leave five minutes before the miracle,” and I’ve held onto that wisdom ever since. The miracle isn’t in forcing the outcome but in trusting the process. By showing up, over and over, I found myself where I was meant to be.

How does it feel to finally at 60, now 61, have a small piece of my story published after years of dreaming? Exciting, thrilling and humbling. At times it feels overwhelming and self-doubt still pays the occasional visit. But I don’t let it linger. I do the next right thing, one step at a time.

Most importantly, I have learned that surrounding myself with people who wholeheartedly believe in me and my mission –– even when they have no idea what I am talking about or doing –– makes all the difference. Their support, encouragement, and unwavering presence have been the foundation of this journey, and for that I am endlessly grateful.