Midway through a long workweek, I had the opportunity to snuggle into a cozy spot at home and lose myself in a few minutes of writing. With my daily errands behind me and gloomy weather outside my warmly lit bedroom window, I climbed onto my bed, covered myself with my lush, thick polar bear–style blanket, and waited for my thoughts to pour themselves onto the page.

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The house was quiet, except for the steady thump-thump of the dryer down the hall. I’d spent the morning running errands and tidying my home before having lunch and finally settling in to write. For once, the timing felt intentional. No distractions. No excuses.

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In moments like these, writing becomes more than a task—it becomes a kind of listening. It’s an art that sometimes begs for understanding. What am I trying to communicate, and why should anyone care?

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That question felt especially present today.

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Earlier this morning, I spoke with a close friend who shared the significance of eagles in his life. He told me about watching them build massive nests and raise their young near his small home overlooking Lake Washington. He’d seen them along the Cedar River and could tell when the young ones were maturing by the feathers scattered beneath the trees. Now that he’s moved to Central Washington, he’s seeing eagles again—this time a pair nesting above his new home, carefully preparing a secure place for their young.

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As he shared his story, I found myself sharing one of my own. I told him about my next book, about two of the main characters and their deep friendship rooted in loss. We’d each experienced loss in our own lives—the loss of loved ones, sometimes several losses in a row, piling up until they felt overwhelming. Sometimes loss arrived as something sharp and sudden; other times it showed up quietly, as part of a grief process we simply learned to endure.

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Sitting here later, wrapped in my blanket and replaying that conversation, I realized something. Writing is my way of doing what my friend had done for me that morning: sharing something meaningful, trusting that it will be received with care. It’s a way of saying, This mattered to me. I hope it matters to you, too.

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Having stories to share—whether written or spoken—is something I care very deeply about. I love crafting stories that pull readers in and offer a moment of refuge from an everyday life that can often feel unbearable. And in moments like this, when the words come easily and time seems to soften, writing reminds me why I keep returning to the page.