
The Banality Of Britt
A 10,000 page book report On a 2 page story
Meet Britt Wolfe, a proud native of Alberta and the devoted human to two vastly different creatures: Sophie, the world’s most perfect husky, and Lena, a rescue cat who might—just might—have emerged from the fiery depths of hell (but is loved unconditionally, of course). She’s married to a smoking hot Australian with dreamy eyes, which we’re all a little jealous of.
Britt’s favourite books are Skinny by Ibi Kaslik and Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro, and she spends much of her time blissfully lost in the pages of a good story—because, frankly, reality is overrated. When she’s not reading, she channels her enthusiasm into potatoes (her life’s true passion), the colour green (don’t question it), and polar bears (majestic, furry icons).
Her flair for interior design is matched only by her peculiar dedication to Windex, the sole brand she follows on Facebook, and her favourite tool for making glass surfaces immaculate. Britt’s other hobbies include putting things away with alarming efficiency and reorganizing her and her husband’s closet by sleeve length and alphabetically by colour—because, really, how else would one do it?
Click here to learn more about Britt!

Songs To Stories Novella Series
Songs To Stories is what happens when you take Taylor Swift’s lyrics, add a pinch of overthinking, and stretch them into fully fleshed-out narratives—because obviously, three minutes, or even ten, of emotional devastation isn’t nearly enough. Each story takes a song and digs deeper, turning heartbreak, revenge, or starry-eyed romance into something that feels both oddly familiar and completely new. It’s a love letter to Taylor’s storytelling and a reminder that there’s always more to the story, especially if you’re willing to write it yourself. Think of it as fan fiction, but, like, elevated?
New stories drop on the 13th of every month—because consistency is key (and I have an unhealthy attachment to deadlines). So check back often… or don’t, but then you’ll have FOMO, and that’s on you.
Click here for the full series. And, click here to buy on Amazon
Coming May 13th!
All Of His Silence is a haunting and heart-wrenching novella about three sisters shaped by the abuse they endured—and the father who stood by and let it happen. When Lena is cast out of the family home at fourteen, she disappears into the streets while her younger sister Isla remains behind, left to bear the brunt of their mother’s cruelty and their sister Vanessa’s calculated torment. Years later, after their mother’s death, Lena and Isla reunite and begin to piece together the truth of their shared trauma. As Vanessa unravels the fragile peace with threats and manipulation, the two sisters confront the painful reality: their lives could have been entirely different if their father had simply found the courage to protect them. In an imagined alternate timeline, we glimpse the family they could have become—but in the end, the only thing that ever stood in their way was all of his silence.
Coming April 13th!
Echoes Of Us is a sweeping, time-bending love story about two souls who find each other across centuries—again and again. From candlelit parlours to battlefield trenches, from glittering Parisian nights to windswept prairies, their connection defies every boundary of time and space. Each life ends too soon. Each love is cut short. But something greater always pulls them back. Now, in the present day, they meet once more—strangers with the haunting sense that they've been here before. This time, fate offers them something they've never had before: a real chance. A shared future. A love that might finally stay. Echoes Of Us is a story about memory, destiny, and the kind of love that outlasts lifetimes.
She moved with an effortless kind of grace. Not the sort that demanded attention, but the kind that made people pause without realizing why. Her golden hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching the dim glow of the overhead lights, turning it almost silver at the edges. Her blue eyes were bright, searching.
And then, impossibly, they landed on him.
Walter’s breath stilled.
“Walter Callahan, right?”
Her voice was soft but assured. Rich and deep.
He couldn’t speak.
She smiled—not a big smile, just the smallest tilt of her lips, as if she understood his silence.
“I’m Margaret. Well, people call me Maggie,” she extended her hand with a smile and Walter shook it meekly. “I always see you by yourself,” she said, her words making colour rise in his cheeks.
His heart pounded.
She tilted her head slightly. “Would you like to eat lunch with me today?”
Walter stared.
She gave a small laugh. “I’m a freshman, so we don’t have any of the same classes. But I figured… maybe you’d like the company.”
He could only nod.
Her smile widened, and then, just like that, she turned—her movement light, elegant, effortless as a deer. She disappeared into the sea of students, leaving behind nothing but the lingering echo of her presence.
Walter let out a breath.
The morning stretched before him, but for once, it wasn’t just something to endure—it was something to get through, a series of meaningless hours standing between him and seeing Maggie again.
He barely made it through his classes.
Every moment crawled, each lesson seeming long and longer, beyond reason. His teachers spoke, but their words were lost to the static in his head. He scribbled half-formed notes, but his mind wasn’t on the equations or historical dates.
Lunch.
He just had to make it to lunch.
By the time the bell rang, his pulse was hammering.
Walter Callahan has spent a lifetime chasing the stars, but when he reads the obituary of Margaret Dawson—the woman he once loved and lost—his world tilts. Sixty years have passed since their last dance, since his devotion to the Apollo missions left Maggie waiting in empty ballrooms for a man who never came home in time. Now, as memories flood back, Walter retraces their past, aching with the weight of regret. Did she ever forgive him? Did she find someone who danced when he wouldn't? As dusk settles outside the grand old ballroom where she once twirled in his arms, Walter takes a step, then another, swaying to the echoes of a song only he can hear. Some loves are lost. Some are left behind. But some—some stay holy forever.
Don’t miss this breathtaking, heart-wrenching novella in Songs To Stories. The Last Dance is available now.
New Year’s Day, 22 Years Ago
The apartment smelled like stale champagne and melted candle wax. Glitter clung to every surface—counters, floors, and somehow, even the ceiling. Maddy stood in the middle of the living room, holding up a Polaroid of Eve mid-laugh, her cheeks flushed, her glass raised high.
“It was a good party,” Maddy said, turning the photo toward Eve.
Eve groaned from her spot on the floor, where she was chipping wax off the hardwood with a butter knife. “A legendaryparty. People will be talking about it for years.”
“Because of the glitter.”
Eve sat back, flicking a flake of wax across the room. “Because glitter is the physical embodiment of friendship.”
Maddy raised an eyebrow. “That was the speech you gave right before you tripped over the coffee table.”
Eve laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Details.”
“Besides,” Maddy added, sweeping the floor, “glitter is just impossible to get rid of.”
“Exactly.” Eve grinned. “Like us.”
Later, they trudged through the snow to the café on the corner, breathless with cold and laughter. When the bell above the door chimed, Eve stopped short.
The barista behind the counter had rolled-up sleeves, warm brown eyes, and a smile so effortlessly charming that Maddy felt her best friend’s world shift in real time.
Maddy nudged her. “Ask for his number.”
“What? No.”
“Eve.” Maddy’s grin turned wicked. “This is glitter-level fate.”
Eve hesitated, then took a shaky step toward the counter. “One large coffee,” she said. “And…maybe your number?”
The barista blinked, then smiled as he scribbled something on the cup.
Outside, Eve stared at the name and number scrawled across the paper.
Sebastian. Call me if you like coffee…or glitter.
Maddy looped her arm through Eve’s. “Told you,” she said, smirking as they crunched through the snow. “This is just the beginning.”
Maddy had always believed in forever.
From the moment she met Eve on their first day of kindergarten—when a small, shy girl refused to board the bus and Maddy took her hand and never let go—forever seemed inevitable. Together, they built a lifetime of shared memories: whispered secrets during sleepovers, first heartbreaks soothed over ice cream, weddings where they stood by each other’s side, and the dream of their bookstore café, Once Upon A Latte, which became the heart of their lives.
But forever doesn’t always last.
“You can keep fighting,” Sebastian said with finality, like it was something she had simply forgotten to do.
Eve let out a ragged breath, her chest tightening, breaking, as she reached for him. Her fingers traced his jaw, cupping his face with a tenderness that made it all the more unbearable.
“No,” she whispered, her voice trembling, almost crumbling. “I can’t.”
Her thumbs brushed against the tears on his cheeks, and she willed him to understand—to see her, not as the person he needed her to be, but as the woman who was already slipping away.
“And I need you,” she whispered, her breath shaking, “to love me enough to let me go.”
Sebastian’s eyes burned into hers, dark and drowning, full of all the things he wanted to say. He shook his head once. Then again. Harder. His breath came in short, desperate gasps, his whole body trembling, as if denying it with every fibre of his being might make it less true.
“I don’t know how,” he choked out, his voice unraveling, raw and wrecked. “I don’t want to.”
And in that moment, with his grief pressed between them, neither of them could breathe.
Fading From Forever is a heart-wrenching story of love in its rawest form—the kind that aches, the kind that refuses to let go even when the world demands it. Eve has made peace with the inevitable, but her husband, Sebastian, refuses to surrender to the fate that is pulling her away.
"Lina had spent her whole life trying to be enough.
Enough for her father to notice. Enough for Michelle to respect. Enough to earn the love that never came freely, only in scraps, handed out when convenient.
She wasn’t sure when she stopped trying. Maybe it was the night her father told her she was selfish, or maybe it was every night before that, a slow accumulation of wounds that finally became too heavy to carry.
But as she stood in her sunlit kitchen, her fingers wrapped around the plane tickets to Australia, she felt something she had never known before.
Relief.
She wasn’t leaving to prove a point. She wasn’t running.
She was simply choosing herself.
And for the first time in her life, that was enough."
Inspired by Mean, this novella is about Lina, a woman who spent her life trying to earn the love of a father who never had any to give. She was the forgotten daughter, the one who was never quite enough, standing in the shadow of a golden child who could do no wrong.
“I could stay here forever,” Noah murmured, his voice low and lazy, as if the sun itself had melted all urgency from his words.
Matteo turned his head slightly, his lips quirking into a soft smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Forever’s a long time,” he said, but his tone was light, teasing, the weight of the words slipping away into the hot breeze.
Noah reached out, trailing his fingers along Matteo’s jaw before brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Not long enough,” he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper, the words carried away by the cicadas’ chorus.
Matteo let out a slow breath, his gaze drifting toward the horizon, where the land blurred into a shimmering haze of heat and sky. His fingers curled absently in the sun-dried grass between them.
‘You don’t like where you are?’ Noah asked, watching him carefully.
Matteo hesitated before answering. ‘I like being here.’ His voice softened. ‘With you. It’s the only place that feels real.’
Inspired by Down Bad, this novella is about first love, impossible choices, and the devastating weight of regret. It’s about Noah and Matteo—two boys from opposite worlds who found something rare and beautiful in each other, only to have it ripped away by forces beyond their control.
“I want to stay,” she replied, keeping her voice calm, steady. Her gaze swept the room, lingering on the table where her classmates sat, laughing and toasting their glasses. This was the end of something. It felt like a moment worth lingering in.
Jasper’s hand stilled on her waist. He tilted his head, his expression neutral, but Cara felt the shift immediately. “I think we’ve stayed long enough,” he said, each word deliberate, measured.
She stepped back slightly, her brows drawing together. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I’ll get a ride home.” It wasn’t defiance—it was careful, calculated compromise, the kind she had learned to offer him in their four years together.
But compromise didn’t sit well with Jasper. His jaw tightened, his smile unwavering as he glanced around the room, aware of the eyes that might be on them. “Cara,” he said softly, but with a weight that made her pulse quicken. “Don’t be difficult.”
“I’m not being difficult,” she replied, keeping her voice light. “I just want one more dance.”
For a moment, Jasper didn’t move. Then he let out a soft laugh, the kind that sounded charming to anyone who didn’t know better. “Alright,” he said, releasing her waist. “One more dance.”
Cara exhaled, relieved, but that relief was short-lived. Jasper stepped away, walking toward the edge of the room. The message was clear: she could have her dance, but she wouldn’t have it with him.
Inspired by Champagne Problems, this novella explores what it means to say no when the whole world expects you to say yes. It’s about the courage to walk away, the strength it takes to stand alone, and the aching freedom of reclaiming yourself.
The icy Pennsylvania winter greeted me the moment I stepped off the bus, its sharp chill biting at my cheeks. I’d hated this cold growing up—hated how it crept into every crack and refused to let go—but now, it felt like an old, familiar embrace.
I hadn’t told my father I was coming. How could I? After everything we’d been through—time stretching like a chasm between us, pulling us into estrangement, the loss of Mom carving its own hollow in our lives.
Inspired by Our Song and Tis The Damn Season by Taylor Swift, Every Road Leads Back to You is a poignant story of love, loss, and second chances, following Willa Barrett as she returns to her small Pennsylvania hometown after twelve years of chasing dreams that never quite materialized.

Britt Wolfe’s Journal
Britt Wolfe’s Journal—because what the internet really needed was another forty-something writer oversharing her deepest thoughts with the emotional maturity of a teenager’s diary. Yes, I’m aware no one asked for this, least of all me, but apparently my therapist charges extra to pretend she’s interested in every mundane detail of my day, so here we are. Expect daily musings seasoned with existential dread, generous helpings of self-doubt, and jokes that are clever only if you squint really hard. Don’t worry, if it ever gets too heavy, there’s always my blink-and-you'll-miss-it humour—though fair warning, sometimes even I miss it. Click a title below to read—or, you know, spare yourself and close this tab immediately.
Click here to see the full list.
This is the first prompt in my 30 Days of Radical Honesty journalling challenge, and I couldn’t imagine a more fitting place to begin. Grief is love with nowhere to go, and this entry is for the one who still holds so much of my heart. I wrote this not just as an act of remembrance, but as a way of honouring a bond that shaped me, comforted me, and kept me tethered to this world in my earliest and most fragile years. If you’ve ever loved and lost an animal who felt more like soul than pet, this one is for you.
This journal entry is a love letter to the woman I’ve fought to become. It’s not about perfection or performance—it’s about presence, peace, and the quiet power of finally feeling at home in your own skin. It’s about the joy of liking who you are, not for anyone else’s approval, but because you know how hard you worked to get here. If you’ve ever doubted your worth, if you’ve ever shrunk yourself to be accepted, I hope this piece reminds you of what’s possible when you choose to take up space, live boldly, and love yourself without apology.
This entry is a celebration—of growth, of grit, of everything I’ve built with nothing but determination, creativity, and an open heart. It’s not about proving anything to anyone. It’s about pausing long enough to breathe in the beauty of a life I created entirely on my own terms. If you’ve ever needed a reminder that you’re allowed to feel proud, allowed to shine, allowed to love the person you’ve become—this is it. This is joy in motion. This is self-belief made visible. Welcome to the life I built with my own hands.
This entry is for anyone who’s ever been scapegoated, silenced, or painted as the villain in a story they didn’t write. It’s a reckoning—with betrayal, with gaslighting, with the unbearable weight of being blamed for someone else’s cowardice. It’s about a father who refuses to see the damage he enables, who listens to venom and calls it truth. It’s angry, yes—but more than that, it’s done. This is the moment I stop begging for clarity, stop trying to fix what was never mine to repair. This is the moment I finally say what needed to be said. Loudly. Clearly. Without apology. This is also the end.
This entry is one of the hardest things I’ve ever written—and one of the most necessary. It is a farewell, not with anger, but with the exhausted tenderness that comes from decades of hoping for something that was never mine to hold. It’s about a daughter who begged for love at the feet of a man who only knew how to withhold it. It’s about heartbreak, yes—but more importantly, it’s about healing. About releasing the weight of someone else's silence, shame, and smallness. I wrote this to set myself free. And if you’ve ever had to walk away from someone who was supposed to love you, maybe it will help you feel free, too.
You Don’t Get to Be the Hero Now is a journal entry forged in fury—a raw, unfiltered reckoning with the people who arrive late to the story and demand to be cast as the saviour. It’s for every self-appointed guardian who watched from a distance and then tried to rewrite history to centre themselves. This entry calls out that delusion with blistering honesty, tearing down the façade of performative care and exposing the truth beneath it: you weren’t there. And no matter how loud you lie or how desperately you posture, you don’t get to claim the title of hero.
Today is lucky number thirteen. Thirteen years with the love of my life—the kindest, sexiest, most generous-hearted man I have ever known. I wanted to write something that captures the enormity of what this love means to me. This entry is a celebration—not just of the years we’ve spent together, but of every laugh, every challenge, every quiet moment and wild adventure that has shaped our story. It’s not just about being in love—it’s about being held in love, every single day. If you’ve ever wanted to know what real, soul-deep partnership looks like, this is it. And I’m so incredibly grateful to live it.
This entry is a celebration of resilience. It’s a reminder that even when darkness claws at your ankles, you can rise rooted in light. It’s not about the one who tries to tear me down—it’s about everything and everyone lifting me up. From reconnections that feel like miracles to the thrill of creating art that lives and breathes in the world, this is a reflection on the beauty, the abundance, and the relentless forward motion of a life that will not be dimmed. I wrote this to remember where my power lives—and to honour the fire that no one can take from me.
Some writing costs you something. This piece did. It’s about the kind of love that sacrifices without question—the kind of mother who would step into the path of harm just to spare her daughter the heartbreak of betrayal. The Bullet She Took is a raw and personal reflection on loyalty, blindness, and the truth I refused to see—until my mom uncovered it for me. If you’ve ever been saved by someone who loved you more than they loved their own peace, I hope this one finds you. Please read it. Let it sit with you. And hold space for the ones who take the bullet so we don’t have to.
This entry is a raw, unflinching reflection on what it means to survive cruelty inflicted by someone who chooses to harm rather than heal. It’s not about the abuser—it’s about the aftermath, the wounds carried in silence, and the process of reclaiming one’s voice. Written from the perspective of the victim, it captures the invisible weight of being targeted by someone who finds power in breaking others. This is for anyone who has endured manipulation, emotional violence, and the slow erosion of self-worth at the hands of someone who was supposed to love them. It’s not just a release—it’s a reckoning. A refusal to stay silent. A promise to keep rising.
I have a front-row seat to one of the greatest performances of our time. It’s a one-person show, running indefinitely, starring someone who has mastered the delicate art of self-importance with a finesse that almost—almost—deserves applause. There is no conversation too small, no moment too insignificant, that cannot be expertly redirected to highlight their imagined intelligence, their pretend achievements, and delusions of their unparalleled existence. And the best part? They truly believe we’re all lucky to be in the audience. So, in honour of this truly dazzling display of ego, I present to you: a masterclass in delusions of grandeur.
Love is often spoken about in grand declarations, in fleeting moments of passion, in words that try—but so often fail—to capture its depth. But this? This love is something else entirely. It is not just poetry or promise; it is motion. It is the way I am held, the way I am heard, the way I am chosen, every single day, without hesitation. It is the kind of love that exists not just in words but in action, in unwavering presence, in the spaces between the moments that seem too small to matter but somehow mean everything. This entry is a reflection of that love—of what it means to wake up every morning beside a man who embodies it in every touch, every look, every breath.
There comes a point in every writer’s journey where they have to stop and acknowledge their own power—not in whispers, not in hesitance, but in bold, undeniable truth. This entry is that moment for me. For years, I questioned myself, battled doubt, and let fear convince me that I wasn’t enough. But I have fought too hard, written through too much, and carved my words into existence with too much fire to doubt myself anymore. My writing is my victory. It is my battle cry. It is proof that I have endured, that I have risen, that I am exactly who I was meant to be. This is not just a reflection—it’s a declaration. A moment of fierce, unshakable certainty.
There are places that stay with us, not because we choose to hold on to them, but because they refuse to let us go. Places where laughter once lived alongside sorrow, where walls absorbed both whispered dreams and unspoken pain. The house I grew up in was one of those places. A structure that stood against the elements but could never keep the real storm—the one that raged inside—at bay. It was a place of contradictions, of light and shadow, of moments I wish I could preserve and others I would give anything to forget. And yet, the past does not ask permission to linger. It echoes, it vibrates, it waits. This is my reckoning with that place. A reflection on what was left behind, what was lost, and what I must now choose to release. And when the remembering is done, when the weight of it has settled, I will say goodbye in the only way I know how—with a eulogy, not for a home, but for a house that was never one.
Time is a strange thing. We track it, measure it, chase it—but we never seem to hold it for long. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how it moves, how it stretches and compresses in ways that feel impossible. How the years slip through our fingers like water, yet some moments linger, sharp and vivid, refusing to fade. I’ve been thinking about the selves we leave behind, the ghosts of who we used to be, scattered across the years like echoes in an empty room. And I wonder—where does it all go? What do we become when time has taken everything but the bones?

The Stories After
The Stories After is a love letter to the question no movie ever answers (and almost no one asks): “But what happened next?”
It’s for the over-thinkers, the daydreamers, and anyone who’s ever sat through the credits wondering if those characters are actually okay. Each story imagines what comes after the final scene—diving into the messy, beautiful, and occasionally ridiculous realities that follow happily ever after… or, you know, after the explosions and dramatic slow-motion walks.
Think of it as storytelling inspired by the movies that left me with more questions than answers. It’s for the film buffs who crave closure, but with way more existential crises and emotional damage.
New stories in The Stories After series drop on the 30th of every month—because I believe in giving you something to look forward to. And, let’s be honest, I also enjoy emotionally wrecking you on a schedule. So check back, refresh obsessively, or pretend you’re not invested (we both know you are).
Click here to see the full series.
Poetry By Britt Wolfe
Poetry is just journaling, but make it cryptic. I write about love, grief, betrayal, and the occasional deep-rooted resentment that probably should have been unpacked in therapy, but hey—rhyming is cheaper. If you’re looking for sweeping romance, delicate metaphors, or poems about the way the moon makes me feel, you won’t find them here. What you will find is razor-sharp honesty, the occasional insult wrapped in iambic pentameter, and the kind of biting commentary that makes you wonder if I’ve been eavesdropping on your life. Spoiler: I haven’t, but if the shoe fits, lace it up and start running.
Click here to read all my sad, sad poems.
This poem is a declaration—for every person who has fought to outgrow the limitations of their upbringing, only to be met with resentment instead of recognition. It’s for those of us who have had to claw our way out of generational dysfunction, who have risen not in spite of where we came from, but because we refused to stay there. They Will Not Hold Me Here is both a condemnation and a liberation. It’s a reminder that we are not defined by the people who couldn’t love us well. That our success, our joy, and our unapologetic voices are not betrayals—they are revolutions. And when we rise, we don’t rise alone.
This poem is an ode to the kind of love that doesn’t shout, but shows up—in flour-dusted countertops, in buttery dough pressed into stars and hearts, in the quiet patience of a mother guiding tiny hands. My mother’s shortbreads weren’t just cookies. They were her way of loving out loud without ever needing to raise her voice. What began as a gift for one became a tradition that wrapped around our family like warmth in winter. Even now, long after I lost her original recipe, I carry the essence of those moments with me—each stolen bite of dough, each Christmas spent baking, a memory etched into my bones. This poem is for her. For the sweetness she stirred into my childhood. And for the little ones I now hold close, so they’ll always know that love is in the doing, in the giving, in the small, sacred acts we pass down.
This poem is a tribute to my mother—her quiet care, her unseen sacrifices, and the way love can be folded into something as simple as a jar of homemade apple butter. It’s about the sweetness of being known and chosen, even in small ways, and the ache of watching that light dim under the weight of belittlement and misogyny. As I grow older, I find myself revisiting these memories with fresh eyes, wishing I had understood then what I know now. This poem holds my gratitude, my regret, and my hope that she felt my love, even when I didn’t yet have the words.
This one’s for the girls who were born loud, bold, and unafraid—even when the world tried to hush them. Feminist by Birthright is a joyful, defiant anthem for every woman who didn’t become a feminist, but always was one—before she had the words for it, before she even knew why the rules felt so wrong. This poem celebrates inherited fire, unshakable power, and the unbreakable rhythm of rising, again and again, with joy in our hearts and steel in our spines. It's for the ones who lead, love, cry, rage, build, and blaze—all on their own terms. Because we weren't given a seat at the table. We built our own.
There’s something sacred about building a life with your own two hands. The kind of life that doesn’t just happen, but is carved from intention, sweat, vision, and relentless love. When the Work Is Worth It is a poem for the builders—for the ones who rise early, stay late, and pour every ounce of themselves into something bigger. It’s for the women who dream in blueprints and believe in effort, for the partners who create together, for the families who lay foundations in laughter and legacy. This poem is a celebration of the bruises, the breakthroughs, the beauty in the blisters. Because when it’s done with love? The work isn’t just worth it—it’s everything.
There are places that leave their mark—not just on your passport, but on your soul. Passport Pages and Crocodile Smiles is a love letter to every wild, wonderful adventure that has shaped me. It’s for the saltwater days, the rainforest stumbles, the ancient animals with knowing eyes, and the man who held my hand through every one of them. This poem is for the ink-stamped proof that we were there—in love, in awe, in motion. It’s for the laughter that echoes across oceans, the vows spoken in sea breeze, and the thunderstorm flights that led us safely home. These aren’t just trips. They’re chapters. And this poem is the story they wrote in my heart.
There’s a kind of strength that isn’t loud. It doesn’t flex or posture—it just shows up, day after day, in the early mornings, in the aching hands, in the quiet determination to keep going even when no one’s watching. Sweaty But Never Done is a love letter to that kind of woman. To the builders and dreamers, the mothers and makers, the ones who carry the weight of it all and still find a way to move forward. This poem is a tribute to relentless spirit, to hustle with heart, to the beauty of doing the hard thing because it matters. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about being present. Tired, yes. Sweaty, always. But never, ever done.
Life Moves On (And So Did I) is a quiet but devastating rejection of a narcissist’s last, desperate hope—that they still hold space in my life, that their presence lingers, that their name carries weight. But the truth is simple: they are nothing to me. This poem is not about anger or even closure—it’s about the sheer, undeniable irrelevance of someone who once believed themselves to be permanent. Time has erased them, memory has abandoned them, and I have stepped forward into a life where they do not exist. Because in the end, the greatest insult to a narcissist isn’t hatred—it’s indifference.
Truth is Stubborn, But You Just Keep Lying is a merciless takedown of the narcissist’s favourite pastime—revisionist history. This poem is for the ones who twist reality to fit their narrative, who rewrite their own sins, who preach their fiction with the desperation of someone terrified of the truth. But truth? Truth does not bend. It does not soften. It does not kneel before liars no matter how many times they repeat their falsehoods. This poem is a hammer striking down their illusions, a reminder that no matter how they distort the past, the facts remain, and the truth will always outlast the lie.
The Art of Not Caring" is a masterclass in dismissal—a guide to reducing a narcissist to exactly what they fear the most: nothing. This poem is not about rage, not about revenge, but about the effortless ease of indifference. It is the sound of a door closing without a second glance, the weightlessness of moving on, the realization that even hate is too much effort to spend on someone so irrelevant. Narcissists crave attention, even if it’s negative, but the real power lies in not thinking about them at all. And that? That is the art I have perfected.
My Every Win is a Loss for You" is a beautifully petty, triumphant declaration that my success isn’t just mine—it’s the narcissistic abuser’s worst nightmare. Every goal I achieve, every milestone I reach, every single time I rise—it’s a direct contradiction to the lies they told themselves. They swore I’d fail, they waited for me to crumble, but instead, I soared beyond them. And now? Every win of mine is another loss for them, another reminder that they bet on the wrong outcome. The best revenge isn’t anger—it’s living so well that it destroys them.
This poem is not a threat. It is a reminder. A quiet knock on the door of a story built on lies, performance, and omission. The Threat of Truth was written for the moments when truth stands taller than any courtroom testimony—when it does not need to be loud to be lethal. It exists for the person who is terrified not of confrontation, but of exposure. Because the most dangerous thing in any room is not the one who was lied about—it’s the truth itself. And the truth? It’s coming. Steady. Unflinching. And it remembers everything.
I Don’t Hate You, I Just Don’t Think About You is the ultimate rejection of a narcissist’s existence—the final, unshakable proof that they no longer hold a single thread of power. This poem isn’t about anger, or grief, or even closure. It’s about complete and utter indifference. There is no longing, no resentment, no second chances—just the quiet, undeniable fact that they are nothing. No space in my mind, no weight in my heart, no presence in my world. They wanted to be unforgettable, but the truth is crueler than any revenge—I forgot them.
Thriving Without Your Toxicity is a testament to the undeniable, unstoppable power of moving on. It’s about what happens when you finally cut the chains, walk away, and realize that the weight you carried wasn’t yours to bear. This poem is for those who were told they would fail without their abuser’s control, for those who were made to believe they couldn’t stand on their own—only to find out that life is so much bigger, brighter, and more beautiful without them. It is a celebration of freedom, success, and the undeniable proof that we do not just survive narcissists—we thrive in their absence.
This poem was written in a moment of clarity—raw, righteous, and long overdue. It is a letter of reckoning addressed to an unnamed group who cloaked harm in concern, rewrote narratives to protect themselves, and partnered with cruelty under the guise of care. How Are You Going to Justify It? is not a question. It’s an indictment. A mirror held up to those who twisted the truth, weaponized diagnoses, and left devastation in their wake while pretending their hands were clean. It is a reminder that silence doesn’t equal amnesia, and that accountability—though long delayed—will come. This is what it sounds like when someone refuses to be gaslit into forgetting. This is what it means to remember everything.
Kay, But Where Were You ? is a scathing indictment of performative care—the kind of empty, self-serving loyalty that only shows up when there’s an audience. This poem calls out those who rewrite history to cast themselves as the hero, despite their absence when it truly mattered. It’s a rally cry for truth, a voice for the ones who were actually there, and a brutal reminder that showing up after the fact doesn’t erase all the times you didn’t. At its core, this is a poem about calling out the silence, the deflection, and the lies that try to replace presence with performance.
Some betrayals don’t just break trust—they erase entire histories. What Your Betrayal Left Behind is a raw, unflinching meditation on what it means to be rewritten, removed, and replaced by someone who never hesitated to carve out their own version of the truth. This poem explores the slow unraveling of identity in the aftermath of deception, the haunting weight of exclusion, and the silent, searing injustice of watching someone else walk away unscathed. With sharp, visceral imagery, it captures the ache of erasure and the quiet, defiant strength of remembering.
The Betrayal Wore Your Face is a haunting exploration of trust shattered, of bonds broken with a smile. This poem captures the slow unraveling of loyalty, the sting of deception disguised as friendship, and the quiet devastation of realizing that some of the deepest wounds are inflicted by those we once held close. With striking imagery and raw emotion, it delves into the weight of betrayal—the way it lingers, reshapes us, and forces us to question what was ever real. Read on, if you dare, and step into the echoes of a trust that was never meant to last.
Sometimes, the best revenge isn’t anger—it’s indifference. You’re Yesterday’s Trash (And I Took You to the Curb) is a triumphant, no-nonsense anthem about finally recognizing when someone is no longer worth your time, energy, or emotional real estate. With biting wit and unapologetic confidence, this poem celebrates the moment you stop making excuses, stop handing out free passes, and start walking toward the love, loyalty, and friendships you truly deserve. Because the best kind of closure? Realizing you’ve already moved on while they’re still stuck being them.
An Ode to Writing is my love letter to the craft that has shaped me, sustained me, and given me purpose. Writing isn’t just something I do—it’s the heartbeat beneath everything, the thread that weaves my thoughts into something tangible, the magic that turns fleeting ideas into something that lasts. This poem is a tribute to the power of words, to the late nights spent lost in creation, to the way a blank page feels like possibility rather than emptiness. Writing is my greatest gift, my greatest joy, and I will never stop writing.
Let’s be honest—writing is not for everyone. Some people try, bless their hearts, but the words just… sit there, lifeless, like a bad haircut on a humid day. Meanwhile, I? I wield the written word like a divine right. Some people are born to run marathons, some to paint masterpieces, and some (tragically) to do their taxes on time. But me? I was chosen—anointed by the literary gods—to turn mere ink into art. The Gift of the Word (And Lucky Me, I Have It) is a completely humble and not-at-all self-absorbed reflection on the rare, almost mythical power of writing well—a power that I, of course, possess. If this poem offends, don’t blame me. Blame talent.
The Gift in My Hands is a love letter to my craft, to the words that have shaped my life, and to the extraordinary privilege of building a career from the thing I was born to do. Writing isn’t just a job—it’s the pulse beneath my skin, the fire in my bones, the magic that turns thought into something tangible. This poem is my gratitude made lyrical, my deep, unwavering appreciation for the mastery I’ve honed since 2011, for the worlds I’ve built, and for the truth behind every cliché—when you do what you love, it never feels like work. Writing is not just my career. It is my calling.
Screaming at the Sky While I Sign My Book Deals is a deliciously petty, gloriously triumphant clapback to the kind of narcissist who thinks their hate has power—when in reality, I’m too busy thriving to notice their tantrums. This poem is for the ones who seethe while I succeed, who twist themselves into knots trying to rewrite history while I’m out here writing bestsellers. It’s about the ultimate revenge: not just surviving, but soaring. While they stew in their own bitterness, I am building, creating, thriving. And that? That must really burn.
The World According to You (Spoiler: No One Cares) is a scathing, sarcastic farewell to the kind of narcissist who truly believes they are the gravitational force holding the universe together—when in reality, they’re just a background glitch in lives that have moved on. This poem is for the delusional, the drama-obsessed, the ones who spin their own narratives thinking repetition makes fiction true. It’s a sharp, biting, and darkly funny reminder that no one is waiting for their next act, no one is reading their script, and no one—no one—cares about their never-ending performance.
If You Want to Know (Know That You Can’t Hurt Me) is pure catharsis—years of venom spit back at the source, a blade sharpened on the relentless grind of someone else’s delusion. This is for the narcissists who think repetition makes a lie true, for the bitter, spiteful ghosts who refuse to stay buried, for the unwelcome parasites who latch onto lives that have no room for them. You are not the centre of my universe. You are not even a distant star. You are static, white noise, a meaningless flicker in a life that has outgrown you. This poem is not an invitation. It is an exorcism.
The Weight He Never Carried is a Pantoum that captures the cruel imbalance between the bully who forgets and the person who must live with what was done to them. The structure of the Pantoum, with its repeating lines, mirrors the way trauma loops endlessly in the mind of the person who was hurt, while the one who inflicted it walks away without a second thought. This poem explores the weight of that erasure, the injustice of carrying pain that the bully never has to acknowledge. It is about the silence that lingers, the echoes that remain, and the suffocating truth that while he can move on without consequence, the damage does not disappear with him.
You Don’t Get to Be Over It is a spoken word poem about the staggering selfishness of bullies who claim they’ve “moved on” while the people they tormented are still clawing their way out of the wreckage. It’s about the absurdity of expecting someone to simply “get over” the damage inflicted upon them, as if pain works on the same timeline as the person who caused it. The bully walks away clean, weightless, forgetting the harm as easily as they inflicted it—but the person they hurt is left with the aftermath, the echoes, the scars. This poem is a refusal to let that injustice go unspoken. It is a declaration that you don’t get to be over it when you were never the one who had to live with it.
This Is Why I Hate You is not just a poem—it’s a reckoning. It’s a battle cry for every person who has ever been pushed to the edges, erased from the narrative, made to feel like they were nothing by the calculated cruelty of someone who wore a smile while holding a knife behind their back. This is for the ones who were excluded, whispered about, lied to, and lied about. The ones who woke up one day to find that their world had turned against them, that friendships had soured like spoiled milk, that their name had become a punchline to a joke they were never in on. This poem is fury without apology. It is the ache of betrayal, the weight of being left out, the deep and lingering damage of a bully who has long since moved on, while their target still carries the scars. It is everything left unsaid, everything swallowed down, now spat back out in fire and fury.
Aging is one of life’s greatest betrayals. One minute, you’re effortlessly keeping up with trends, wearing skinny jeans without fear, and understanding pop culture references with ease—and the next, you’re squinting at your phone, wondering when all your favourite bands became dad rock, and hearing the words classic Taylor Swift applied to an album that came out like yesterday. Am I So Five Minutes Ago? is a humorous, slightly existential reflection on the absurdity of aging as a millennial, from stubbornly clinging to side parts and invisible socks to the creeping realization that the world has moved on without us. It’s a lighthearted, darkly funny take on the moment you realize you’re no longer the target audience, but rather, an observer—one with aching knees, deep nostalgia, and an unshakable devotion to grey home decor.
Leaving one home for another is never just a journey—it is a reckoning of the heart. The Repatriation of Me is a reflection on the bittersweet reality of returning to Canada, a country I love deeply and am endlessly proud to call home, while leaving behind the chosen family that made Australia feel like home, too. It is a love letter to the wild beauty of this land—the mountains, the lakes, the endless trails where we wander with Sophie at our side. It is a celebration of new beginnings, of planting roots in a place where we can build a future, of embracing the values that shape this country we cherish. But it is also an acknowledgment of loss, of distance, of the ache that lingers when love is stretched across oceans. This poem holds the weight of both—joy and sorrow, gratitude and longing—because home is never just one place. It is the pieces we gather along the way, the love that remains no matter how far we go.