Books I Didn’t Plan on Writing

These Books I Didn't Plan Saved My Soul

I didn’t plan on writing these books.

I wrote them because I didn’t know how else to survive my life.

After I survived domestic violence, he died. And no one really prepares you for that combination. There was no clean ending, no script for how I was supposed to feel. Relief didn’t cancel grief. Grief didn’t mean love. Silence didn’t bring peace—it brought questions.

I didn’t understand what my mind was doing. Why certain memories surfaced without warning. Why absence felt loud. Why my body reacted before my thoughts could catch up. I didn’t miss him—but something in me kept reaching backward, confused by the sudden absence of what had once been constant.

So I wrote.

I wrote stories that included DVPOs because my nervous system needed containment. I needed boundaries on paper before I could trust them in real life. I needed to see power named, controlled, and interrupted. I didn’t realize it then, but I was teaching my brain a different ending—one where safety was enforced, and voices mattered.

Writing became therapy long before I consciously called it that.

It took time—real time—to understand the truth: my brain didn’t miss him. It missed the patterns. Trauma doesn’t wire love; it wires familiarity. Chaos becomes routine. Hypervigilance becomes normal. When the pattern disappears, the brain panics—not because it wants the harm back, but because it doesn’t yet know what to do with quiet.

That realization changed everything.

I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t damaged. I was conditioned. And writing helped me recondition myself.

Book by book, therapy worked. Then something unexpected happened—it became addictive in the best possible way. Not compulsive, not escapist, but clarifying. Writing stopped being a lifeline and started being a language. I wasn’t just surviving anymore; I was understanding.

I stopped writing to escape my life. I started writing to interpret it.

Now I’ve accepted my fate—not as loss, but as direction. This is how my mind heals. This is how I integrate trauma, illness, grief, and identity without pretending any of it didn’t happen. Writing didn’t fix everything, but it gave me coherence. It gave me authorship.

Thirty-two books since October 11, 2024.

Not because I had something to prove.

Not because I was chasing productivity.

But because I had a life that needed organizing.

I don’t romanticize what I survived. But I also don’t minimize what I became.

My brain didn’t miss him. It missed patterns.

And once I understood that, the shame fell away.

I am not broken. I am not damaged.

I am self-aware. I am resilient. I am disciplined. I am creative.

I am someone who took pain and turned it into structure.

I’m not surviving anymore. I’m freaking awesome.

Author’s note:

This piece was written as part of my own healing, not as advice or instruction. If you’ve survived domestic violence or the loss of someone who harmed you, know that confusion does not mean weakness. The brain remembers patterns before it understands safety. Take your time. You are not broken.