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My First Memory. White eyelet panties and rattlesnakes.
We lived at the base of the One-Mile Hill, where rattlesnakes slid down into the shade of our carport. My earliest memory is standing in ruffled white panties, held back by the arm and taught the ritual: open slowly, look below the threshold, then the stoop, then the concrete. The prairie taught me to respect the dangers I could see. It took years to learn how to survive the ones I couldn’t.
Privilege, Silence, Darkness, Love
Today I’m sharing the truest thing I’ve ever written. It is raw, it is revealing, and it carries the arc of my life in four words: Privilege. Silence. Darkness. Love. From the outside, mine looked like a privileged Texas childhood — but privilege can also be a veil, and silence can train a girl to walk straight into danger. At twenty-three, darkness found me. Violence threaded through the days until I was sure I would not survive the next corner. Yet the prairie still called, and in time, love — steady, faithful, and true — healed me. That is the arc of my memoir, Bones Beneath the Prairie: suspense, heartbreak, prairie light, and redemption.
Never a Victim-Always a Survivor
Some stories are buried deep, pressed under years of silence. Mine begins in a small West Texas town, where the prairie stretched endless and the oil rigs marked time like a heartbeat. I learned early that family could be both sanctuary and battlefield — and that the cost of silence is often higher than the truth itself. This book is the unearthing, the laying bare of bones I once tried to keep hidden.
My First Memory. White eyelet panties and rattlesnakes.
We lived at the base of the One-Mile Hill, where rattlesnakes slid down into the shade of our carport. My earliest memory is standing in ruffled white panties, held back by the arm and taught the ritual: open slowly, look below the threshold, then the stoop, then the concrete. The prairie taught me to respect the dangers I could see. It took years to learn how to survive the ones I couldn’t.
Privilege, Silence, Darkness, Love
Today I’m sharing the truest thing I’ve ever written. It is raw, it is revealing, and it carries the arc of my life in four words: Privilege. Silence. Darkness. Love. From the outside, mine looked like a privileged Texas childhood — but privilege can also be a veil, and silence can train a girl to walk straight into danger. At twenty-three, darkness found me. Violence threaded through the days until I was sure I would not survive the next corner. Yet the prairie still called, and in time, love — steady, faithful, and true — healed me. That is the arc of my memoir, Bones Beneath the Prairie: suspense, heartbreak, prairie light, and redemption.
Never a Victim-Always a Survivor
Some stories are buried deep, pressed under years of silence. Mine begins in a small West Texas town, where the prairie stretched endless and the oil rigs marked time like a heartbeat. I learned early that family could be both sanctuary and battlefield — and that the cost of silence is often higher than the truth itself. This book is the unearthing, the laying bare of bones I once tried to keep hidden.
My First Memory. White eyelet panties and rattlesnakes.
We lived at the base of the One-Mile Hill, where rattlesnakes slid down into the shade of our carport. My earliest memory is standing in ruffled white panties, held back by the arm and taught the ritual: open slowly, look below the threshold, then the stoop, then the concrete. The prairie taught me to respect the dangers I could see. It took years to learn how to survive the ones I couldn’t.
Privilege, Silence, Darkness, Love
Today I’m sharing the truest thing I’ve ever written. It is raw, it is revealing, and it carries the arc of my life in four words: Privilege. Silence. Darkness. Love. From the outside, mine looked like a privileged Texas childhood — but privilege can also be a veil, and silence can train a girl to walk straight into danger. At twenty-three, darkness found me. Violence threaded through the days until I was sure I would not survive the next corner. Yet the prairie still called, and in time, love — steady, faithful, and true — healed me. That is the arc of my memoir, Bones Beneath the Prairie: suspense, heartbreak, prairie light, and redemption.
Never a Victim-Always a Survivor
Some stories are buried deep, pressed under years of silence. Mine begins in a small West Texas town, where the prairie stretched endless and the oil rigs marked time like a heartbeat. I learned early that family could be both sanctuary and battlefield — and that the cost of silence is often higher than the truth itself. This book is the unearthing, the laying bare of bones I once tried to keep hidden.