Everybody’s Got an Opinion. Yet, Nobody Knows a Fucking Thing
Everybody has an opinion about politics, immigration, the economy, and people they've never bothered to get to know. But somewhere along the way, we started confusing opinions with actual knowledge. From a frustrating conversation with my father to someone questioning my engagement to Dawna, I've had about enough of people who would rather judge, label, and repeat whatever bullshit they've been fed than think for themselves.
When Fiction Gets Too Fucking Real
I started revising a story in Undertow because I'd written something that was a little too close to reality and not nearly fictional enough. So I decided to explore what could have happened instead of what actually did. That led me down a rabbit hole researching what happens to transgender women in New Mexico's criminal justice system. And holy fucking hell. What started as an exercise in creative writing turned into something deeply personal, frightening, and infuriating. Sometimes fiction forces you to confront realities you'd rather not think about.
Just Fucking Saying
A Facebook meme claims no child ever feels born in the wrong body unless some creepy adult puts the idea in their head. Well, that's fucking news to me, because I knew something was wrong when I was three or four years old, long before the internet or anyone had explained what transgender meant. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't be asking some hard fucking questions about diagnosing children and administering life-altering treatments. Parents need to parent, doctors need to practice medicine, and politicians need to get the fuck out of the examination room.
The Sound of Her Being Here
Eight months ago, I loved living alone. I loved making my own decisions, setting the thermostat wherever the fuck I wanted, and answering to nobody. Then Dawna moved in, and somewhere along the way, my house became our home. Now she's away visiting her mom, and for the first time in months, I'm sitting here alone, discovering that the silence I used to treasure is suddenly too fucking loud. Turns out, love isn't always about grand gestures. Sometimes it's just the sound of someone you love being there.
You Can Take Us Out of the Military …
Three former military people show up fifteen minutes early to a meeting, immediately look for seats facing the door, and somehow end up comparing photographs of horrific motorcycle injuries. And none of us thinks there's anything particularly unusual about it. Military service leaves its mark long after you take off the uniform. It shapes how you communicate, how you approach responsibility, and how you understand accountability. We show up early, we tell the fucking truth, and we don't waste time dressing things up in pretty language.
Played Like a Fucking Fiddle
After twelve-hour workdays, all I want is to spend time with Dawna. Unfortunately, she's trying to squeeze two households into one, and apparently my constant presence isn't particularly conducive to concentration. So she came up with a brilliant solution: send my annoying ass on errands. One light bulb, a pack of cigarettes, several hours riding Nyx and Aurora, and an overcooked swordfish dinner later, I discovered on Facebook that my future wife had played me like a fucking fiddle. And you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way.
What the Fuck Am I Trying to Say?
I'm finally getting serious about publishing Undertow, my collection of short stories. But somewhere between thinking about cover art and waiting for my fucking omelet, I started questioning what the collection actually says. These stories are fictionalized versions of very real experiences from my life as a transgender woman. They're painful, uncomfortable, and not particularly happy. But does a collection need a happy ending to have meaning? After dying three times in 2022 and nearly dying again in a motorcycle crash in 2025, I've become obsessed with impact and legacy. I'm not writing simply to publish another book. I'm writing because I need my life, and my words, to fucking matter.
Don't Let Your Day Fuck Up Your Night
Some weeks, the weight of leadership, bad decisions, and life's bullshit gets pretty fucking heavy. But when I walk through the door at night, I don't want to dump that weight on the woman I love. Life has taught me how precious those ordinary evenings really are, and I'm not about to let somebody else's bullshit steal them.
One Fucking Year
One year ago, an evening motorcycle ride left me broken on Cerrillos Road. Broken bones, surgeries, months of rehabilitation, and nights spent crying when nobody was watching. But somewhere in the hardest fucking year of my life, I found love, purpose, and something I hadn't truly possessed before: a sense of my own worth. I'm not grateful for the accident. I'm grateful I survived it.
The Final Chapter
My day job woke me up. My writing career kept me awake. Somewhere between midnight emails, publishing expenses, Undertow, and another book I haven’t fucking written yet, I realized writing isn’t just something I’m doing. It’s what I intend to carry with me to the final door.
The Reaper’s Kiss
There’s a difference between watching somebody face death and being the person staring through the fucking door. Once you’ve crossed that threshold and somehow come back, mortality stops being an idea. Tomorrow isn’t promised. You know that in your fucking bones.
Twenty Fucking Feet
There was a trash can twenty fucking feet away. Instead, she left her cup, spilled drink, wrappers, and the remains of a jelly donut in the street for somebody else to clean up. It’s a tiny thing, until you realize how perfectly it represents the difference between liberty and entitlement.
Thanks for the Material, Asshole
The danger of putting your work into the world is that everybody has a fucking mouth, and the internet gave everybody balls. One anonymous asshole decided to make fun of a tooth I’m still dealing with after nearly dying in a motorcycle crash. Unfortunately for him, he picked on a fucking writer.
The Fucking Cage
A car gets you from one place to another. A motorcycle puts you inside every fucking mile between them. The temperature, the wind, the smells, the landscape. You don't pass through the world. You enter it. Unfortunately, sometimes love and logistics mean climbing into the fucking cage anyway.
Apparently, I’m an Author Now
I fucking hate marketing. I hate self-promotion. But apparently, somewhere between making sell sheets, sending books to festivals, volunteering at booths, and planning a motorcycle trip to Tucson around a fucking book festival, something changed. I finally stopped treating writing like something I do and started accepting that being an author is part of who I am.
I Earned That Fucking Picture
Someone at work told me the picture I submitted was too unprofessional and suggested I replace it with one that’s a fucking decade old. Nope. I don’t look like that woman anymore. I’ve aged, changed, died, survived, learned, led, and earned every fucking stripe on my shoulder. The woman in this picture is the woman you asked for.
The List
Almost a year after the motorcycle crash, I showed Dawna the list of everything that had been broken, torn, punctured, crushed, or otherwise fucked up that night. I expected her to understand what I survived. I wasn't expecting the fucking list to remind me how much of it I'm still carrying.
There’s a Special Place in Hell for Speakerphone People
I was just trying to eat breakfast and write in peace when one asshole decided the entire hotel needed to hear his speakerphone conversation. Then another one joined in. Somewhere between the tinny voices and my rapidly deteriorating sanity, I started wondering about entitlement, social awareness, and why the fuck people do this.
Put Your Back Into the Fucking Plow
Having a hard life doesn't give you a claim on somebody else's success. I've been broke. I've failed. I've trusted people I shouldn't have trusted. But nobody was coming to save me, so I got back up and kept fucking moving.
Someone in My Corner
I thought this week’s lesson was going to be about surviving a new leadership role, monsoon commutes, and a shitty rear tire. Instead, I walked into the garage and found a clean motorcycle—and another reminder that I don’t have to do this fucking life alone anymore.