About Me

My background

I grew up between two beautiful landscapes, each one shaping me in ways I didn't understand until much later in life. In the Appalachian foothills of North Alabama, the ridge of Lookout Mountain and the deep cut of Little River Canyon taught me to pay attention to weather, to light, to the way a place can hold both stillness and storm. In the rolling Piedmont of central North Carolina, my daddy's horse farm opened into long fields, a place where time moved differently, and the horizon felt wide enough to breathe.

My childhood unfolded between my mother's home and my father's land, and the distance between them was bridged by a small Cessna my daddy flew. Weekends and summers meant climbing into the seat beside him, the smell of his leather jacket, the hum of the engine, the way the world lifted and widened as we rose above it. Those flights taught me early what it meant to belong to more than one place, to hold two truths at once, to live with a kind of spaciousness inside.

Historic Gothic-style building with arched windows and intricate stonework.

My writing roots

For more than thirty years, my work has been in education and leadership, guiding people and organizations through seasons of growth, uncertainty, and change. Much of that time is spent as a compliance officer and administrator, where ethics and integrity are not abstract ideals but daily practices, the quiet, steady work of helping institutions do what is right, even when it is difficult. The role taught me to hold complexity, to listen beneath the surface, and to navigate change with clarity and care.

Close-up of a white horse with a speckled coat in a sunlit field.

The role of the horses

Horses have never lied to me. They have always met me with a kind of clean honesty that asked for the same in return. With them, I had been my truest self, long before I could articulate why. Coming back to horses was like integrating a part of myself that I had set aside in the rush of responsibility and leadership. They reminded me of how to breathe in my own skin again, how to listen without bracing, how to move with intention instead of urgency.

Writing has always been the place where I make sense of things, the quiet room where experience settles into meaning. For years, I wrote in the margins of my life; early mornings before meetings, late nights after long days of navigating systems, ethics, and change. The page became a place where I could listen more closely to what was unfolding in me, a place where the landscapes of my childhood, the work I carried, and the presence of the horses could speak to one another. Over time, the writing stopped being something I fit in around the edges and became a way of living with more honesty, attention, and intention.

As the threads of my life began to converge, my writing shifted too. It has become less about documenting and more about offering, a way of creating space for others to reflect, breathe, to find themselves in the stories of the land, loss, leadership, and return. Horses and Holy Ground grew out of that impulse, shaped by seasons that remade me. My writing now lives at the intersection of soul work, embodied presence, and the wisdom of the natural world, inviting readers to the slow, steady work of becoming more whole.

I am shaped by the belief that the truest things move us quietly. Presence, integrity, and attention are not lofty ideals; they are daily practices: the way we breathe, the way we listen, and the way we choose to show up when no one is watching. The landscapes of my childhood, the work I carry in education, and the long companionship of horses have taught me that a life is not built in grand gestures but in the small, steady acts of honesty that accumulate over time.

I hold a deep reverence for creation and the Creator who breathes life into every living thing, a reverence that shapes how I am still learning to move through the world and how I care for the horses entrusted to me. Compassionate stewardship is at the heart of Equine Paths, tending to each horse with dignity, honoring their stories, and creating a sanctuary where healing and growth are possible for both horses and humans. My work, whether on the page or in the pasture, is rooted in the same commitment: to live gently, to listen deeply, and to participate in the ongoing work of restoration that creation invites us into each day.

About Me

My background

My writing roots

The role of the horses

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