It's a long story…
But during a hypnotherapy session — gifted by my mom, the day before my 20th high school reunion (normal, healthy, fine) — my "higher self" showed up as a tropical bird. Sharp-eyed. Mildly judgmental. Impossible to ignore.
A toucan. Confusi-lovingly named Touks. Call it metaphor, coping mechanism, creative breakthrough, or mild midlife unraveling. I'll take any of the above.
What matters is what he told me to do:
Write the book.
So here we are.
After decades of optimizing herself into something polished and performative (puke), a word-obsessed millennial hits the point where rejection finally feels safer than self-erasure — and detonates her pink sparkle, the diary-soaked voice of her analog girlhood, onto the least likely stage of all.
