Welcome to Enough.

This is where I write when I don’t know what I’m doing.

It started as something else. It’s been essays, fiction, fragments, work stories, burnout ramblings—whatever I was holding at the time. It still is.

Now I think of it as a kind of scrapbook. A public notebook. A place for things I don’t want to lose.

Some pieces are polished. Most aren’t. Some are fiction. Some are real. Some are me pretending it’s fiction so I don’t have to explain it.

There’s no central theme. No niche. No consistent structure. Just a quiet accumulation of whatever I had enough energy to shape into words that day.

If you’re still reading, you’re probably the kind of person this is meant for.

About the Author

I’m someone who keeps circling the same questions: what’s worth remembering, what stories hold up, and how to make meaning from fragments. I write slowly—sometimes in fiction, sometimes not—following whatever thread feels honest enough to keep.

I’ve worked in hospitals, clinics, and surgical centers. I’ve raised children, lost jobs, and started over. Most of what I write lives somewhere between documentation and story, shaped by the quiet absurdities of work, care, and memory.

This space isn’t polished or conclusive. It’s where I leave pieces of that search: unfinished, uneven, occasionally clear. It’s also where I try to tell the truth.