the dedication I never wrote

Writing a book was both one of the hardest and easiest decisions I’ve ever made.

It was one of those opportunities that leaves you with no choice but to say yes - when you have something deep inside of you that begs to be released into the world.

I’ve always been fascinated by the paradox of words and their insufficiencies. Writing really is just letters arranged in a way that makes our heart beat a little differently. But I’ll never stop searching for words to describe everything I know and feel and experience.

And now, my words are published. Part of my story is written. And every bit of it is still a little terrifying. 

Storytelling was a nightly ritual while growing up in my house. My parents always read to us. They told me stories of faraway princesses and dragons, kissed my forehead with prayers, and sang me lullabies about mockingbirds and silent nights and surfer girls. Every night, I fell asleep to the magic of words. 

My pipe dream as a kid was always to be an author. I often found myself wrapped in the rhymes of a Shel Silverstein poem or an adventure in Narnia. I loved roadtrips because it meant I had hours to write in my journal and stare out the window, like I was the hopeless romantic, eight-year old star of an indie music video. (All those cows and miles of flatland had that effect sometimes.) I scribbled poems on scraps of computer paper. Even before I could hold a pencil, I’d have my mom transcribe song lyrics for me, usually as a string of phrases about my brothers, loosely strung together by elementary rhymes. Sometimes, at recess, I’d wander around the playground and write stories in my head, kicking up the snow with my feet, pretending I was the protagonist of some wildly detailed coming-of-age story. Sound like a psychotic second-grader? Maybe. But as long as I had words, I never felt alone. And as long as I had words, I always had stories. And something about that made me feel safe, heard, known.

If I could go back to meet that little girl now, shake her by the shoulders, and say “We did it! We wrote a book!”, I would. If I could tell her that her dad was going to die, I would. I wish I could hold her and tell her every single thing she needed to hear at every age.

I didn’t realize how much that inner child was guiding my on this journey, until I held my published words in my hands for the first time, flipped through a few pages, and started to cry. 

I wrote The Language of Loss hoping that it would resonate with anyone who needed hope, love, reassurance, understanding, trust - a reminder that they aren’t alone. In the moments where I desperately needed motivation, I imagined all the people like me, drowning in grief, aching to be heard and seen. I thought of my family, my friends, my future kids, the friends of friends of friends who had started sending me DMs on Instagram. This book was for all those people. But when I first held the tangible evidence of this aching in my hands, I realized that all along, I was writing for someone else too.

Little me. 

This thought caught me off guard. It felt off-putting, selfish. People weren’t supposed to write books for themselves. Every book I’ve ever read has had a dedication page for someone else. My book was a labor of love for my dad and my family, but as I fell asleep that night imagining the little girl who dreamed of becoming an author, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I couldn’t stop thinking that I had written this story because I love her too. 

For months, I buried a small note on my computer with this dedication, the one I never intended to show the world:

Most of all, this book is dedicated to myself. To my eight-year-old self, the girl that scribbled stories in a notebook on roadtrips, with a treasured fountain pen and a flashlight; to the girl that crafted silly songs and nonsensical poetry, all for the love of language; to the girl that dreamed of becoming a writer.

To myself, now, the girl that is endlessly learning how to hurt and grow.

To my future self, the woman who will one day find herself again in these pages, the woman who, perhaps, has found her purpose. 

I typed this and almost instantly clicked out of it, hoping I would forget they were my words at all. 

I didn’t forget. 

I’ve been thinking about myself as a child since the day my book was born, because I suddenly feel in touch with a new piece of myself. I’d like to think that because my parents always encouraged me to pursue my passions, I grew up without ever outgrowing myself. I clung to my dreams, and I still do. Through all this turbulent change, I’ve let that little girl keep me grounded, keep my eyes on the things that fill me up. I’ve let her remind me that it’s okay to do things for yourself. It’s okay to listen to your heart and follow the path that your inner child is begging you to explore. It’s okay to dedicate a book to the person you once were and the person you hope to become. 

Sometimes, I feel like I’m still that little girl who used to wander the playground at recess, wrapped in her own thoughts, her own stories. The girl who scribbled messy chapters in a journal on a bumpy road trip. The girl who started writing a book on a recycled laptop when she was ten. The girl who sang softly to herself on car rides because she liked the way her thoughts matched the scenery. The girl who taught herself piano chords when she couldn’t sleep. The girl who ached for knowledge, who never hesitated to raise her hand, who volunteered when the room went silent. The girl who was honest and unapologetically spiritual. I want to grow up to be her again.

I decided that I never want to let go of this magic, even if it means I have to get lost in myself sometimes. I want to make that little girl proud. I want to keep hurting, so I can keep growing, so I can lose myself and find myself a million messy times. I never want to stop telling stories. I want to preserve this pain in paper and be swallowed by the honesty of words. I can’t wait to grow up. I can’t wait to take her with me.