Why I’m Writing Children’s Books About Feelings I Never Knew I Had

I think I’m writing these little stories because I didn’t know I was allowed to stop glowing.

That’s it. That’s the post.

But also — of course — it’s not. Because I do know. I’ve read the books. I’ve been to the therapy. I’ve named the feelings. I’ve unlearned the shame. I know.

AND YET.

Somewhere in me is still the kid who thought being good meant being quiet. Being helpful. Being small. Being bright. Especially when I was tired.

Especially when no one said thank you.

I didn’t start writing these books because I wanted to be an author. Or because I have a kid. Or because I think I’m some kind of childhood-whisperer.

I started writing them because something cracked open around 26, post-divorce, when I realized:

Oh.
I have agency.
I don’t have to do what I was trained to do.

I can say no.
I can stop.
I can rest.

...And yet I don’t. Not really.

So I wrote a book about a firefly who burns out.

Because I didn’t know how to say “I’m tired” without also saying “I’m failing.”
Because part of me still thinks rest is something you earn.

Even now.
At 37.
After all this work.

These books are soft.
They’re gentle.
They’re about little bugs and little feelings.

But they are also absolutely about the deep, unspeakable things I didn’t know how to say when I was five.

Things like:

“Please don’t make me hug him.”

“I don’t want to make everyone else feel better.”

“I’m scared you’ll stop loving me if I stop performing.”

“I don’t know who I am when I’m not being good.”

And yes, I know we’re all doing our best.
This is not a blame story.
This is a naming story.

Because when you don’t name it, you normalize it.
And when you normalize it, you pass it down.
No one told me I could stop glowing.
No one told me I didn’t have to earn rest.
No one told me that being bright all the time might mean you're burning yourself alive.

So now I’m writing it.

For the kids.
But also for the adults they’ll become.
And also — let’s be honest — for me.

Because I want to believe it.
I want to believe you can be worthy and worn out.
Still loveable. Still good. Still enough.

Even if your light goes out for a while.

I don’t have a five-step plan.
I don’t know if these books will “make it.”
I don’t even care, honestly.

They feel like the truest thing I’ve ever made.

And that feels like enough.

For now.