In my small hometown in Illinois, I was a shy girl who loved to read. I loved imagining myself joining the characters in their adventures. And somewhere along the way, I realized I wanted to have a voice that breathed life into stories on the page. I wanted to be a storyteller.
When asked about my career goals, I would declare, “I want to be a semi-rich and semi-famous novelist!”
From my senior yearbook: Even my high school classmates knew of my dream to be an author.
As a teen, writing became my refuge. I poured my soul into poems, short stories, and articles for the student newspaper, the Vandal Scandal. One summer in high school, I interned with the local newspaper, which gave me a taste of small-town journalism.
Vandal Scandal Yearbook Photo
Photo from my junior class yearbook with the staff of the Vandal Scandal student newspaper. That's me, kneeling front left, with the big glasses, long hair, and flowery blouse.
I filled blank pages with poems and essays as therapy while learning to deal with local crushes and long-distance church camp boyfriends. I only shared those early works with a couple of friends, but putting the emotions on paper helped me process my feelings.
In high school, I joined the Speech Team to challenge myself. I recited poetry in contests. One that stuck with me was “Maud Muller” by John Greenleaf Whittier. Its closing line still echoes:
“For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’”
That line stirred something in me—a warning not to let fear guide my path. I didn’t want to look back and wonder what might have been.
When the Speech Team presented a community exhibition, it gave me a chance to express my creative side. I wrote and performed a skit as a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader—complete with a Southern accent—who became lost in my hometown’s tiny airport.
Speech Team Yearbook Photo
Photo from my junior year with the Speech Team, where I was a different kind of storyteller.
While attending college in Oklahoma, I pursued journalism to hone my writing skills. After marrying my college sweetheart, we moved to Florida. I spent almost 37 years working for Disney, where I was a secretary preparing annual reports and later a training materials writer. I was using my journalism degree, but still not sharing my voice.
One could compare the journey of my adult life—from arriving in Florida as a newlywed to the person I am today—with a roller coaster. My husband and I enjoyed our share of adventures as scuba divers, Renaissance Fair participants, and photography enthusiasts. For a while, I published a scuba club newsletter. I would have liked to write about more of our adventures, but my husband’s privacy requirements rarely allowed that.
Scuba Club Newsletter
The March 1996 issue of ECHOES, the Blue Dolphin Dive Club newsletter. Writing never left my life, even when I wasn't yet telling my own story.
“People don’t want to hear about your life,” he insisted. “And they especially don’t want to hear about mine.”
The stories I wanted to tell remained buried in the journals I kept over the decades… and in my memories that he tried to convince me weren’t real.
Being furloughed in 2020 gave me time to write a memoir of my aunt and uncle, both polio survivors, celebrating their journey of love and resilience. Publishing their memoir in 2021 fulfilled a lifelong dream of becoming an author. It wasn’t my story, but bits and pieces of my soul were stitched in the pages.
Then came the greatest season of loss I’ve experienced so far.
First, in February 2022, my mother passed away at 89.
Later that year, Hurricane Ian flooded parts of my house, prompting months of repairs.
In December 2023, my husband died at 60, after a long, quiet decline.
And in May 2024, I lost my father at 95.
I wrote all three obituaries and prayed I wouldn’t need to write any more loved ones’ memorial tributes for a long time.
Those losses, along with changes at work, prompted me to retire from Disney. I considered moving to Texas to be closer to my cousins. Ultimately, though, I stayed in Florida.
Since retiring in late March 2025, I’ve traveled, reconnected with family afar and friends nearby, and plunged into the world of being a nonfiction author. I’ve written a few poems to process grief, love, and growth. I’m revisiting some of those buried memories. I am dusting off the pages of the story my 16-year-old self typed to get over her high-school crush.
For decades, I wrote articles, annual reports, training materials, and other people’s stories. Now, I’m finally writing my own.
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This blog originated in a speech I presented for my local Toastmasters group in August 2025.