I’ve spent most of my life trying to make sense of pressure, recursion, and the strange ways people break and rebuild themselves. The Resonance Crossing grew out of that long arc — not as a bucket‑list project, but as a way to give shape to patterns I’d lived through long before I had language for them.
I didn’t want to write a book just to say I’d written one. I wanted to make something that carried weight — something a reader could feel. The story took form while I was navigating one of the hardest periods of my life, including the loss of my mother, Lynette. Writing became a way to stay awake in the middle of all that, to understand the difference between being broken and being aware.
Much of the book reflects the idea that awakening isn’t a clean, inspirational moment — it’s messy, uncomfortable, and often painful. But it’s also the point where things start to change. That’s the heart of Awake, Not Broken, the line that threads through the story.
If even one reader finds resonance in these pages — a moment that feels familiar, a truth that lands, a shift in perspective — then the work has done its job. That’s all I ever wanted from it.