How I Found Myself Between Bottles, Battles, and Novels

At sixteen, I handed my English teacher a diary written from the perspective of an ANZAC soldier.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t even for a grade. But it was real. I wrote it like I was in the trenches, mud on my boots, grief in my chest. She read it, looked up at me, and said, “You should keep writing.” And in that moment, I believed her.

But life moved fast... really fast!

I worked. I partied. I made choices, good and bad. And then I became a mother, and everything changed.

I had two babies under two. One needed me in every possible way, physically, emotionally, endlessly. Therapy became our routine. Hospitals became more familiar than playgrounds. I gave every ounce of myself to my kids, but somewhere in the chaos… I stopped hearing my own voice.

Then, one night, I had a dream. And the next night, it came back.

So I borrowed one of the kids’ iPads, tapped out the first scene, and something I thought was lost inside me, cracked open. I was 24 or 25. Exhausted. Lost. But I was writing again, and for the first time in years, I felt like me. I was only writing for myself; I had no idea about publishing.

Until one day, that dream became a manuscript. That manuscript became a momentum. I saved up for a computer. I wrote in car parks, therapy waiting rooms, and during 3am feeds. One book became two. Then three. Then nine. And somewhere along the way, I found the girl I used to be before the diagnosis, before the advocacy, before the exhaustion.

Writing gave me back my identity, just when I needed to remember who I was amidst all the battles I was facing.

But let me be honest: this journey hasn’t been clean or easy.

I’ve thrown away entire books. Edited one story ten times over. Had too many ideas at once. Wrote half of Home of the Harpies and then left it for five years because it didn’t feel right, and then magically merged it with Bloof of the Titan. I’ve doubted my words. I’ve questioned if I could really do this. Be a mother and still have a voice that was mine, separate from it all.

But I kept writing. Because fantasy didn’t help me run away, it helped me rebuild.

I didn’t just write stories.
I created worlds.
I drew maps—literal ones.
Maps that now live in books published across the globe. Maps readers trace their fingers over. Maps that matter.

And then… I met Angie.

Her art didn’t just bring my book covers to life; it made me feel them. Her vivid imagery gave breath to my words, and suddenly, my stories weren’t just stories. They were alive. And for the first time, someone outside my head could see what I’d been carrying inside for years.

And the most unexpected, beautiful thing?

My children saw it too.

Kaedyn, my brave, witty, brilliant boy, is now a published author. And after his book launch? Kids came up to me and whispered, “I want to write a book too.” Dante is writing. Phil has stories in him he’s finally beginning to share.

That sixteen-year-old girl who poured her heart into a soldier’s diary?

She didn’t just grow up.

She didn’t just come back.

She became the spark.

She lit the torch.

She showed her children and complete strangers that storytelling isn’t just a dream you have. It’s a legacy you pass on.

Because stories don’t just entertain.
They connect. They comfort. They remind us we’re not alone.

And when the world feels too big, and I feel like I’ve been swallowed by therapy schedules, emails, and the weight of being everything to everyone, I still write.

Because fantasy gave me something reality nearly took...

My voice.
And I’ll never lose it again. You'll always find me between the pages!