Apparently, I’m writing again. Didn’t see that plot twist coming.

I didn’t expect to start writing again, but it makes sense. Writing has always been how I metabolize change—not in the middle of it, but after. Once the dust settles and the adrenaline drains away, that’s when the meaning surfaces.

The first time I got paid to write, I was twelve. That was also the year I stood up to a bully for the first time. It wasn’t some Hollywood moment, and it’s not a story I trot out often. But I’ve done the work. It doesn’t steer my life anymore. And if I’m going to write about how people end up aiming at the wrong targets—might as well start with the moment I learned to aim at all.

We had just come back from vacation. There was blood on the concrete in front of our house. I remember that before anything else. Then a note. My parents read it, made a phone call. A few hours later, the police arrived. One of them asked if we had a way to get into the house next door.

I said yes. I knew where the key was. I’d used it plenty—my friends lived there, and Nancy, their mom, felt like family. My parents were older when they had me, and Nancy was one of the few adults I naturally trusted. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the key and walked over with the police, who, I’m fairly sure, were trying to stop me. I didn’t stop. I still don’t.

The garage door was easy. Then the kitchen. That’s where I saw the blood smeared on the wall by the phone. I was in shock, but still moving. Still curious. I stepped into the living room and saw the blue shag carpet. The fire poker. More blood. That’s when the cops finally pulled me out.

It took a few days before I knew the story. Her boyfriend, in a blackout, had beaten her and gouged out her eye. She was in the hospital. He was on the run. The FBI got involved when he crossed state lines. Eventually, they caught him trying to come back to the house.

I walked over when they arrested him. Looked him dead in the eye and said, “What the hell is wrong with you?” Then I turned around and walked away.

Nancy survived. But everything shifted. Her sons—my friends—moved in with their dad. That chapter ended without ceremony.

That was the first time I ever stood up to someone dangerous. Not with fists. Not with force. Just with the one weapon I had—my voice.

And from that day on, a thread began. Not always neat, not always noble, but constant: standing up to bullies. Sometimes for me. Sometimes for others. Over the years, that thread wove itself through everything—into my choices, my work, and eventually, into a business.

I’m going to share some of those stories here. Not all of them are heavy. Some are funny. A few are downright absurd. But every one of them taught me something.

And I promise—none of them will be as heavy as this one. They’ll all have some humor. That’s how I work things out, too.

Who knows—maybe this becomes a book in 2026. Stranger things have happened.

Until then, I’ll do my best to get one out every week between now and the end of the year.