Write Anyway

When the world feels impossible, I write.
Not because it changes everything, but because it changes me.

Lately, it feels like silence is tightening its grip again.
Book bans. Revisionist history. Whole classrooms stripped of truth.
Voices labeled too political, too explicit, too uncomfortable.
The same voices that have always been told to lower their volume — women, queer people, people of color, survivors — are once again being told they’re “divisive.”

But stories are dangerous precisely because they remember.
They refuse erasure.
And every time someone writes one, especially someone who was never meant to, it’s an act of defiance.

For me, writing has never just been about imagination. It’s a form of protest, a way to bear witness when everything else feels too large to fix.
I can’t rewrite policy or undo cruelty or single-handedly dismantle systems that silence us.
But I can create girls who speak.
And I can refuse to let their voices be lost.

That’s what The Girls They Couldn’t Silence is about, girls through history who were told to stay quiet and survived anyway.
A midwife’s daughter in Salem, accused for her mother’s sins.
A girl in Occupied France who must unlearn the lies she was raised to believe.
A queer student in a 1960s boarding school who finds love in a world that forbids it.

Each story begins the same way: with a modern girl discovering their forgotten voices, and realizing her own is part of that inheritance.

Prue, in Daughter of the Gallows, is the first. She stands at the gallows where her mother was hanged and chooses to stay, to heal, to name what was stolen.
Her rebellion isn’t loud in the way history celebrates; it’s quieter, stitched in acts of care, courage, and truth-telling.
But that’s where change begins, in the people who decide that silence no longer keeps them safe.

And then there are The Daughters of Cassandra; modern women haunted by myth, carrying the same curse: to be right, to be ignored, to be punished for warning others.
These stories reimagine the archetypes we’ve inherited: Cassandra, Antigone, Medusa, Persephone, Medea. They ask what it would look like if we believed them now.

Because we’re living through our own age of disbelief.
Of noise so constant it starts to sound like truth.
Of institutions pretending neutrality while they erase nuance.
And yet, still, we write.

Maybe that’s the bravest thing any of us can do.

When history repeats its silencing, write anyway.
When they ban books, build libraries in your own hands.
When they rewrite what happened, write what’s real.
When the world tells you your story doesn’t matter, tell it louder.

It’s not just rebellion.
It’s survival.

To Every Girl Who Ever Learned to Stay Quiet

The world is quieter without you.
Write anyway.