<a target="_blank" href="https://www.buzzsprout.com/twilio/text_messages/2537770/open_sms">Send us a text</a>I don’t remember my birth, but my body does.This is the beginning of a longer story about inheritance, faith, watching eyes, and what it means to be born into something before you can choose it.This clip opens the threshold, the place where memory meets imagination.If you’ve ever carried a story you didn’t consciously choose, this is for you.Listen slowly.  Stay curious.

Send us a text I don’t remember my birth, but my body does. This is the beginning of a longer story about inheritance, faith, watching eyes, and what it means to be born into something before you can choose it. This clip opens the threshold, the place where memory meets imagination. If you’ve ever carried a story you didn’t consciously choose, this is for you. Listen slowly. Stay curious.

<a href="https://www.buzzsprout.com/twilio/text_messages/2537770/open_sms" rel="noopener noreferrer">Send us a text</a>I don’t remember my birth, but my body does.This is the beginning of a longer story about inheritance, faith, watching eyes, and what it means to be born into something before you can choose it.This clip opens the threshold, the place where memory meets imagination.If you’ve ever carried a story you didn’t consciously choose, this is for you.Listen slowly.&nbsp; Stay curious.

1966 through the birth canal into the glass bowl.

Where My Stories LiveThis is the threshold, the place where memory meets imagination. Some stories live in dirt under fingernails, some in the noise of a crowded room, and some in the quiet after midnight. Here they gather—scraps of faith and failure, flashes of joy, and the weight of questions that refuse to stay buried. These stories aren’t polished artifacts; they’re living things. They walk with me, wrestle with me, and surprise me. If you follow along, you’ll find stories filled with soil, laughter, doubt, and grace. You might see your own reflection in them, or discover something you didn’t know you were searching for. Either way, this is the place where my stories live.

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Where My Stories Live This is the threshold, the place where memory meets imagination. Some stories live in dirt under fingernails, some in the noise of a crowded room, and some in the quiet after midnight. Here they gather—scraps of faith and failure, flashes of joy, and the weight of questions that refuse to stay buried. These stories aren’t polished artifacts; they’re living things. They walk with me, wrestle with me, and surprise me. If you follow along, you’ll find stories filled with soil, laughter, doubt, and grace. You might see your own reflection in them, or discover something you didn’t know you were searching for. Either way, this is the place where my stories live.

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1966 through the birth canal into the glass bowl.

1966 through the birth canal into the glass bowl.