Your story holds the truth.
Your voice carries it home.
A reflection for women ready to tell the story that won’t leave them alone.
Oh, The Stories You’ll Tell™ began as a poem. It is a call to the ones who feel something stirring inside them. The writers. The builders. The women who’ve lived enough life to know that every chapter, even the messy ones, matters.
It’s a reminder that your story, in whatever form it takes, holds wisdom, legacy, and light. And the world needs to hear it.
Every line is both truth and invitation to remember what you’ve lived, write what you know, and share what only you can say.
The book is coming soon.
If you’ve got a story to tell, or one you’ve been avoiding, you’re in the right place.
Oh, The Stories You’ll Tell™
There’s a story in you.
Not a quiet one.
Not the kind that waits its turn
or slips politely into conversation.
This one leans in,
thumb hooked in its belt loop,
saying,
“Alright. You ready yet?”
It’s been with you longer than the doubts you feed,
longer than the dreams you shelved,
longer than the excuses you’ve learned to dress up as timing.
Shows up in the spaces you can’t hide from.
The still moments,
the long drives,
the breath you didn’t mean to take so deeply.
You’ve tried outrunning it.
Tried overworking it.
Tried telling it you’re not prepared
or not that kind of writer
or not the one.
But this story knows you better than that.
Knows your grit.
Knows the way you get back up.
Knows the fire you pretend isn’t still burning.
It chose you anyway.
And now it’s done waiting.
It doesn’t want perfect sentences
or a cleared calendar
or confidence at full charge.
It wants your yes.
A real one.
Small, maybe,
but honest.
Because once you give it that,
that crack of light,
that shift in your shoulders,
that breath that says “fine… okay… now”,
the story moves.
Shows its edges.
Shows its heart.
Shows you parts of yourself
you haven’t named out loud.
People will tell you the world is too loud
for one more story.
They’re wrong.
Noise is cheap.
Truth is rare.
And truth spoken in your voice hits home.
Maybe it’s fiction.
Maybe it’s a memory you buried.
Maybe it’s something you lived
or something you imagined
or something that keeps tugging on the hem of your attention
saying,
“This. Let’s go.”
Doesn’t matter.
If it’s yours,
it wants out through you.
So sit.
Let the dust settle.
Put your hands where they need to go;
page, keys, heart,
and let the words come
the way storms come in the desert:
slow,
certain,
then all at once.
Oh, the stories you’ll tell
when you stop pretending
you’re not the one meant to tell them.