I own clothes. I regularly leave the house looking reasonably put together. I still have no fucking idea what my personal style is. Am I cottagecore? Mob wife? Boho homeschool mom? Camo and cowboy boots? Vans and a band tee? Maybe the real question isn’t which one I am—but why I ever thought I had to choose.

The Chaos Drops started because I got stoned, saw two hot cops, and had an idea. Somehow that became Stevie Bishop, an entire collection of filthy little books, and one of my favorite ways to keep writing fun. Here’s the lore behind the Chaos Drops, writing on my phone after an edible, and why sometimes the smut really is the plot.

Motherhood has always been a complicated word for me. I haven’t spoken to my mother in nearly eleven years, and I never will again. There are wounds that boundaries cannot repair, only protect you from. This is about growing up with your first bully, grieving someone who is still alive, and learning that sometimes the mother you needed comes into your life later.

I’m a mom, a writer, a homeschool teacher, a business owner, and occasionally a person who remembers she needs to eat. I love this life. I’m grateful for this life. I also have absolutely no fucking idea what I’m doing tomorrow. This is what working from home, raising kids, homeschooling, and trying to build a career actually looks like when nobody cleans it up for Instagram.

I love book signings. I love the readers, the hugs, the author friends, and watching my ridiculous event ideas become real. I also love them with a brain that can turn a paperback being a quarter inch out of place into a crisis. Book events are joy, anxiety, chronic illness, perfectionism, financial chaos, and fuck-ass banners—all happening at once.

I said I was going to slow down. I meant it. Unfortunately, nobody informed my brain. Between endless story ideas, abandoned Canva branding, too many fictional identities, and a suspicious number of pen names, I’m learning that I may never actually reach the end of my TBR—except it’s the books I’m supposed to write.

Somewhere along the way, enjoying books became expecting more from everyone who makes them. More access. More content. More proof. More free things. More everything. Maybe it’s time we remembered that wanting something doesn’t mean someone else owes it to us.

Anyone can love the easy version of you. The harder question is what happens when life gets messy, friendships break, and vulnerability becomes ammunition. Some thoughts on trust, accountability, privacy, and the people who bring a flashlight instead of a spotlight.

I love Jesus. I also write books with sex in them. Somewhere between faith, sexuality, purity culture, and the shame I’m still unlearning, I’ve been asking myself a difficult question: is what I’m feeling conviction—or conditioning?