My first memories are of my brother’s death. Maybe that’s why I’ve always wanted to understand the connection between memory and identity. At 17, when I was writing the very first draft of Traces, I was also bandaging my friends’ suicide attempts. I’ve volunteered as a writing tutor for refugees and autistic students, visitor on the closed ward of a psychiatric hospital, celebrant for bereavement ceremonies, and advocate for the queer community (of which I am a member; my pronouns are she/they). As an educator, parent of two tiny humans, YA/NA novelist, and poet, I know that nobody can heal unless they feel safe and seen, which is why I believe so strongly in trauma-informed communication and radical acceptance.
Come visit my nearly faceless Instagram account for more trivia about me (: