I live now on a mountain.

I’ve always loved the sea—its rhythms, its endless horizon—but the mountains have always known my name. Whether walking alone beneath ancient trees on the Appalachian Trail or sitting still on a wind-carved precipice, something in me settles here. I do not come to conquer the mountain. I come to become small enough to hear it speak.

The Celtic Christians spoke of thin spaces—where the veil between heaven and earth grows sheer, like breath on glass. For me, that veil thins among these ridges, where silence isn’t empty, but full of Presence.

I came to the mountain to write. That was ten years ago. But the words didn’t come—not at first. Only silence. Only stillness. The echo of dreams that had lost their wings. I sat each day with a dry pen, the ink of inspiration withheld. What the mystics call the wilderness, I called it disappointment after disappointment.  

But something was quietly at work beneath the surface. The mountain was teaching me its language—one of patience, of emptying, of becoming less. 

And then, the unraveling began. Or maybe it was an opening. Not with lightning or loud revelation, but with subtle tremors—like tree roots pressing gently around a stone. One insight cracked open another, and then another, until the fragments I had carried for decades—philosophy, mystics, sages, theology, scripture, and always, always Jesus—began to hum in harmony.

The words returned—not as effort, but as overflow. Not from striving, but from surrender. It was as if the silence itself had been composing the symphony all along. Now, I no longer chase the current—I follow it. Some call it a muse. I call it my purpose.  I now write because I can't stop writing.  

I’ve worn many names in this life—Director of Social Work, Senior Vice President, Entrepreneur, Publisher, Board Member, and Stephens Minister. I studied journalism long ago, and used writing as a tool, a lever, a key. But beneath all of it, something essential was missing.  

Today, two roles remain that feel truest to me: Author and Certified Enneagram Coach. Not because they impress, but because they speak to the real work—helping others remember who they are beneath all the noise. I write about the Soulprint—that divine echo in each of us, the Imago Dei, the one-of-a-kind radiance placed in us before the world taught us to forget who God created us to be.  

I don’t write from an ivory tower. I write as one who knows what it’s like to work long hours, raise a family, navigate boardrooms and burnout, climb ladders and wonder if it mattered. I know what it’s like to delay a dream until it feels like it might die. I know sacrifice. I know the quiet ache of trying to hold everything together. And I know what it’s like to fall—into the well of depression, into the silence of not knowing who you are anymore.

But I also know what it’s like to be met there. To be held by grace in the dark. To rise, not as someone new, but as someone true.

That is why I write.

To offer words like bread.

To leave light in the dark.

To remind you: You are not alone. You are not lost.

You are becoming.