Finding Forward: The Art of Starting Again

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to storytelling—first through my love of music and lyrics, and later, through writing.

It was through song lyrics that I first experienced the impact of connection. An artist could articulate what I was feeling, give voice to my pain—or my joy. I listened to the radio religiously, memorizing singers’ voices. I absorbed everything I could about their lives—how they got their start, what inspired their songs. Burning CDs, scouring Myspace for undiscovered music, and bingeing music documentaries on Netflix became routine.  

Then, one summer when I was 16, I opened a school notebook and flipped past my history notes to a blank page. At the time, I was fascinated with the ’60s and ’70s—the music, the counterculture, the free-spirited ideals. Out of nowhere, maybe out of sheer summer boredom, I started writing a poem about how I wished I had lived in that era. It was simple, probably only a few lines, nothing remarkable. I don’t remember the words, but I remember how it felt—to put something on paper, to craft an idea into something artful, to search for the right word to make it rhyme.

That was the moment something flickered inside me.

“I was young, and my only direction was everywhere.”

All those years of studying songwriters, admiring their ability to express themselves, and suddenly, I realized I could do that too. I couldn’t sing or play an instrument, but I could put pen to paper. I began writing obsessively, using it as an outlet for thoughts and emotions I would never have otherwise revealed. Without knowing it, I was teaching myself the art of expression—and eventually, the power of connection.

When senior year of high school arrived, I knew I didn’t want to go to college. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to study, and I had other priorities. I wanted to travel. I needed to see the world. I had to trudge through international airports, collect passport stamps, and get lost in foreign cities. I craved novelty—new sights, sounds, and experiences. I was young, and my only direction was everywhere.

So that’s what I did.

I joined an international volunteer organization that took me to Brazil, Australia, India, and South Africa. For the next five years, I spent most of my time abroad. I documented my travels through journals, worked in the organization’s media department writing and editing articles, and somewhere along the way, I realized I wanted to be a travel writer. I even dreamed of publishing a magazine or online journal, collaborating with the talented photographers and fellow travelers I had met. It all felt possible.

Then, one month after my 23rd birthday, my brother Jesse took his life. He was only 24. If you’ve ever lost someone suddenly—especially to something as devastating as suicide—you know how it turns your world upside down. Everything stops except the pain, pulsing like a half-beating heart; the only indicator that you’re still alive. Your system shuts down, conserving what little energy it can. In that space, hope feels impossible. Dreams feel irrelevant. 

“I used to be someone who dreamed, created, traveled—obsessed over music, new experiences, and the thrill of the unknown. Just how far had I buried myself in that cave?” 

In those first weeks, maybe months, I journaled prolifically. I had to. The grief was too much to keep inside—it would have hardened, crystallized into something unmovable. Writing was survival. But eventually, I stopped. I had burned out every last word, drained every lament I could possibly put on paper. And then, there was nothing.The passion that had once fueled me, that had pushed me toward my dreams, was gone. The fire had gone out, and in its place was a dark cavern that I hid myself in like a wounded animal.

In the years that followed, I built a neat, conventional life for myself– patching the holes with routine and normalcy, as if that alone would save my sinking ship. I moved back to North Dakota from where I had been living in Perth, Australia. I earned a college degree, got a job, and lived in a home. Spent lots of time with my family. It all kept me afloat… for a while. But something started to shift in me around my 29th birthday. I felt uneasy about having just one year left of my 20s– a decade that had started out with wild pursuits and endless possibilities. I used to be someone who dreamed, created, traveled—obsessed over music, new experiences, and the thrill of the unknown. Just how far had I buried myself in that cave? 

It took time—and the complete unraveling of the carefully constructed world I had built to keep me safe. Safe from dreaming and failing, from hoping and succeeding, from uncertainty and vulnerability. Safe from truly putting myself out there and stepping into my fullest potential—perhaps the most threatening thing of all. But I’ve finally arrived at a place where I know where I’m going and why. Picking up where I left off all those years ago—a little rougher around the edges, but more determined than ever to chase and fulfill the dreams I had once buried.

In an effort to cultivate the same sense of connection that once comforted me through others’ words and experiences, I want to share my own stories of challenges, growth, life lessons, beauty, and inspiration. Hopefully you’ll find something that speaks to you, too.