Beyond.Belief

Thank you, Jordan, for kicking off the Somehow I Am Different Blog Tour with us! Jordan Sala Tenna is an up-and-coming fellow author with Acorn Author Services and Publishing. Be sure to check him out and cheer him on!

We have learned so much from your thoughtful questions, Jordan! We hope all of you readers out there enjoy Jordan's interview-style blog post as much as we do.

Jordan shares:

Hi Alyssa. Thanks for your time, and Congratulations on your upcoming book, Somehow I Am Different!

What is it about Hungary, and in particular, Hungarian Jews, that moved you to write Somehow I Am Different?

Just about three years ago, in my senior year of undergraduate university studies, I visited Budapest for one week with fellow Northwestern University students to volunteer in the Jewish community. Prior to the trip, I familiarized with current events in Hungary. I read a slew of articles - everything from The New York Times to The Guardian to sites that had been translated from Hungarian to English, absorbing every bit of information I could get my hands on. I read about the far-right Jobbik party, infamous for its anti-Semitic platforms and for gaining increasing political influence in Hungary. Pictures enveloped my laptop screen of the anti-Semitic protesters against the World Jewish Congress holding its annual conference in Budapest. Google images unveiled several desecrated Jewish cemeteries and Holocaust memorials. Headlines reported the Hungarian government’s request for a list of all of the Jewish names and leaders in Budapest. Discussion pieces and blog posts explored whether Hungary was on a downward spiral to pre-WWII conditions. I feared what the situation would feel like on the ground and wondered whether Jews in Budapest had a chance.

During the seven days of the volunteer program, I interacted with Jewish Budapest on a number of levels. I visited during Passover, a week-long Jewish holiday that commemorates the emancipation of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt. This holiday has grown to encompass themes of social justice and minority rights across various social and economic spectrums. In a basement accented with exposed-brick and steeped in progressive, optimistic energy, I toasted to life with nearly one hundred guests from different countries, different backgrounds and different futures.

My hosts welcomed me with open arms, encouraging me to learn about others and inciting me to share about myself. I listened to a number of young Jewish adults describe their unexpected discovery of their Jewish roots in their teenage years and their revival of their Jewish identities in their twenties and thirties. In many cases, these individuals’ grandparents were either murdered in the Holocaust or survived the Holocaust and swore off Judaism upon their return to Hungary out of fear that something as horrible would again endanger their families. If their ancestors were open to embracing Judaism, they were hindered because of communism, the reigning political ideology in Hungary from post-WWII until 1989, which declared organized religion illegal. It wasn’t until this generation, my generation, that religion was a topic of conversation.

Despite these individuals not knowing about their spiritual roots, they took it upon themselves to learn. They dove into educational and community-building programs. They experimented with religion and asked this crucial question: What does it mean to be Jewish? Most of all, they yearned to fit this new element of their identity into their otherwise muddled sense of self. They emerged with bubbling answers to questions like: Who am I? and What is my place in this world?

Though I traveled to Budapest with the intention of giving something to the community on the ground, instead, the community in Budapest shared an invaluable gift with me. The contrast between the joy and optimism of every day Jewish Budapest and the frightening chaos portrayed in the news stirred my insides. This struck me as an injustice; I needed to somehow make it right. Inspired by the people I met, I decided the heart of Jewish Budapest needed to be shared. For other struggling communities, Budapest has the capacity to illustrate how to capitalize on strengths in order to not only survive, but to thrive beautifully. Moreover, the individuals that make up Jewish Budapest mark a search for identity that individuals across the globe can relate to.

Upon returning to Chicago and embarking on discovering my own personal and professional paths, I made the choice to return to Hungary. I wanted to learn more in order to someday document the inspirational stories of everyday Jewish life in Budapest. I successfully launched a Kickstarter campaign to fund eight months of deeply immersing in the ins, outs, and far betweens of Jewish Budapest.

Though my interviewees are quite different than I am, we are also in many ways the same. The particular people I met in Budapest inspired me. Their personalities, resilience, stories, livelihood, and passions speak louder than headlines. I hope they will inspire you, too.

What is your heart's desire for the future of Somehow I Am Different? Is there more to come?

I hope that Somehow I Am Different helps readers to understand the tremendous diversity and life of Jewish Budapest. I also hope that readers of Somehow I Am Different are more likely to relate to their neighbor, whether he or she is the neighbor next-door, the neighbor sitting on the train on the commute to work, or the neighbor in a foreign country. Regardless of our differences, we have a lot in common.

We can talk about the history, politics, economics, or culture of Jewish Budapest. We can also explore what it means to be confronted with internal conflicts about who we understand ourselves to be, who others understand us to be, and which elements we wish to leave behind or take with us into our future.

Through the twenty-one narratives included in Somehow I Am Different, I ask the reader to dive into self-exploration and self-understanding by immersing in the lives and stories of others. Upon discovering that in many ways, we all begin by feeling different. That doesn't mean we should feel alone.

If we want to imagine a better world, we have to start with ourselves. We are all someone else’s “other,” aren’t we? If we realize that we are different, we can realize that of course, others are, too. With that understanding, we can realize that underneath it all many of us want the same thing. Then and only then can we work together to achieve our collective goals.

To answer your question more specifically, will there be a follow up to Somehow I Am Different? I am not sure. If this book helps one pair of people see more eye-to-eye, that is success for me.

Is there a common issue you see facing the twenty-one individuals interviewed throughout Somehow I Am Different?

The individuals including in Somehow I Am Different are diverse and face a host of different issues depending on the person. That said, I think what they all have in common is best summarized by Paul Weinfield, who says,

"Take some time to notice how hard everyone around you is trying. In America, we tend to respond to other people's labor by comparing: "That person is lazy" or "Look at that sad sack slaving his life away." We don't realize that by comparing instead of appreciating, we actually cheapen the value of our own efforts by training ourselves to perceive the world as uncooperative and unrewarding. This is why many of us find work disagreeable, for in ceasing to thank others, we come to find our own tasks thankless.

So today, walk where people are working and silently acknowledge their efforts: not just people scrubbing floors or lifting heavy things, but all the men and women taking care of themselves by running errands or just sitting together with those they love.

Even when people's actions strike you as misguided, notice the struggle to be happy beneath what they are doing. Notice trees bending their branches toward the sun and the bricks in buildings resisting the entropy of time.

The whole world is flowering around you, and as you learn to see with eyes of praise, you will see your own life flowering, too."

As each of us are, each of the interviewees are doing their best to define what happiness looks like for him or her. These interviewees are of different ages, backgrounds, and perspectives. Despite the relative differences in their lives, they are piecing bits of the puzzle together to figure out for themselves what comes next.

Thanks so much, Alyssa! Your sincere love for the Hungarian Jewish community is contagious. For the sake of those people, I wish your book all the success. It's been both moving and joyful to hear the heart behind Somehow I Am Different.

I woke naturally this morning. The glaring sun reflected off the thick layer of snow on the street (thank you Jonas) to steep my bedroom in a light more refreshing than the 60-Watt light bulb screwed into my ceiling. I squinted my right eye open and peered above and over my friend sleeping to my left to examine my window. The corners blurred with frost and a fresh white mound of snow obstructed the lower half of the window frame. Above the precise center of the mound, thin, black silhouettes emerged. Fingerlike extensions branched away from the mound, sprinkling remnants of yesterday’s powder on passersby.

Winter presents us with a choice in how we align our perspective: we can see absence, nakedness, darkness, and cold. Or we can see a fresh beginning, a blank slate, ground awaiting seeds and branches awaiting growth.

Today marks the Jewish holiday called Tu B’Shevat, or the New Year of the Trees. Traditionally, Tu B’Shevat is celebrated by eating fruit, particularly from the kinds that are singled out by the Torah in its praise of the bounty of the Holy Land (grapes, figs, pomegranates, olives and dates). On this day, Jewish communities honor that “man is a tree of the field” (Deuteronomy 20:19) and reflect on the lessons we can derive from out botanical analogue.

Historical Jewish Rabbis established that fruit which blossomed before the 15th of the month of Shevat is the produce of the previous year. If it blossomed afterward, it becomes produce of “the new year.” This is so because in the Mediterranean region, the rainy season begins with the festival of Sukkot. It takes approximately four months (from Sukkot, the 15th of Tishrei, until the 15th of Shevat) for the rains of the new year to saturate the soil and trees to produce fruit.

Hold on, it takes approximately four months for the rains of the new year to saturate the soil.

I have become painfully familiar with instant gratification. When I purchase sneakers on Amazon Prime, I receive them the following day. When I post a picture of my roommates frolicking in the snow, I can hope for at least five “likes” before the night is through.

Naturally, though, it takes approximately four months for the rains of the new year to saturate the soil.

Seeds we plant today may not necessarily show their colors tomorrow. Or the next day. Or even the day after that. Winter challenges us to keep full, green trees in mind. Part of our journey is faith; not necessarily faith in a higher power, but faith in the unknown and faith that something better is around the bend.

Although this day is Rosh Hashanah (the new year) for trees, we attach special significance to this holiday because “Man is [compared to] the tree of the field” (Deutronomy 20:19). Through cultivating strong roots, we produce many fruits.

This post written by Josh Petersel explores how originality may indeed be overrated. Dig deep into how you can change the world, whether or not you are the first person to think of it.

 “Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?” “That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.” - Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

In light of the new year, and in celebration of completing the print formatting of Somehow I Am Different, I am sharing the Epilogue to the book, which recounts a brief timeline of my personal journey to create Somehow I Am Different. You may read more about my path on my personal blog that showcases short pieces I wrote during the project period: resilienceinbudapest.tumblr.com. 

Day one. I was not entirely sure where I wanted to go. All I knew was I felt a guttural lure to immerse myself in a certain identity crisis in Budapest.
 I stepped out of the car and onto the concrete. My heart raced. One long, deep breath. I was sweating even before mounting the probably one-hundred-pound pack on my back. The blazing heat reminded me that summer does exist in Chicago, and an adventure was ahead.  I squeezed my brother as hard and as close as I could. This was the beginning of my journey to write an anthology style nonfiction book about resilience. Years before, I might have thought that emotions ought to make sense. That day, though, I embraced uncertainty from all angles.

Day four. I completely miscommunicated with the man working at the store next door. Despite the emotional roller coaster of leaving something familiar for the unknown, I mustered a sense of certainty in Budapest, at least with regard to the inevitability of learning new elements about myself and about the world around me. I was proud to have been mistaken (twice!) for a local Hungarian.

Day ten. I had already attended three conferences about Jewish life in Europe. My mind was racing with questions like, “How have direct experiences with violence been memorialized?” “Is it not everyone’s job to somehow help the larger community to which they belong?” and “What motivates people to be everyday heroes, even in the face of severe hardship?”

Day twenty-one. I conducted my twelfth interview. I was at the edge of my seat, eager to transcribe and edit narratives that were incredibly unique, heartfelt, and thought provok-ing.

Day twenty-eight. I learned that my grandmother’s hometown, Munkacs, was not only once a part of Czechoslovakia, but also was once a part of Hungary. One month into my journey in Hungary, I learned that I was one-quarter Hungarian.

Day thirty-three. The end of my first month in Hungary posed a series of challenges - most noticeably, my allergies. Until this point, my allergies were uncomfortable but not severe enough to address. They quickly graduated to vision inhibiting. I woke up asking myself questions like, "What am I doing here?" "What is the point of all this?" "Can I really do this?" and "Who will even read this?” It would have been relatively easy to surrender to the questions begging me to spend over ten percent of my remaining budget on a round trip flight to the United States, crawl into my boyfriend’s arms, and eat my body weight in Lays sour cream and onion potato chips while watching a chick-flick. Instead, I reminded myself that I signed on to this. I reminded myself that this was the body’s reaction to realizing it was in unfamiliar territory. I immersed even deeper.

Day forty. My eyes opened further to the warmth of the Jewish Hungarian community. I started Hungarian language lessons. I attended music festivals and strengthened friend-ships.

Day fifty-one. I learned that it is possible to create a sense of community even in the most unlikely of places. I experienced how powerful both individuals and communities can be. I discovered that innovation, social justice, and positive impact come in all forms.

Day sixty-three. I announced a change in book plot and structure to my funders, supporters, and blog audience. The original book was proposed to be an anthology of Jewish millennials in Budapest discovering and embracing their Jewish identity in positive ways, despite growing anti-Semitism. After a ten-day intensive skill-and-project-development workshop, I decided that the plot would revolve around a foreigner’s perspective - my perspective - traveling through Budapest and other European cities, discovering how the search for identity linked international Jewish individuals. I hoped the dialogue between my voice and the voices of my interviewees would encourage a sense of unity among searchers yearning to understand more about their spiritual and personal paths. 

Day eighty-two. I began Torah study with the rabbi from the small apartment-style synagogue and community center I had been attending weekly. My textual Jewish study began to enhance my personal and cultural Jewish discovery.

Day ninety-nine. An American rabbi sat to my left. I turned to him and asked, “Were you always so observant? What is your background?” He recited his upbringing and current stipulations and celebrations. He turned to me and asked, “And you?” Until this point, I had been asked, “Why Hungary?” “How are you qualified?” “Where are you from?” “Why would anyone leave New York?” and “Will you learn Hungarian?” Until this point, though, I had not been asked about my Judaism or my identity. There was something magical about discovering myself in a land without ties to the person I once was or the person I was “supposed” to be. I looked the rabbi wearily in the eyes and said, “I don’t know yet.” As we rang in the Jewish New Year, I wrestled with introspective questions and realized that the answers would only come from within.

Day one-hundred-and-three. Autumn brought with it red and orange falling leaves, pumpkin flavors, increased layers of clothing, holding tighter onto my comforter in bed, and a slew of Jewish holidays. After the conclusion of Rosh Hash-anah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot, I reached a wider conclusion more comfortably: there are various definitions of spirituality. There are various traditions and practices within Judaism, and even further diversity within each sect of Judaism. We must let go of the idea that there is only one way to be religious, or that the more observant community is the holiest or most respected choice. As I embraced Sukkot as the “festival of insecurity,” I embraced the previous four months and the uncertainty that lay ahead.

Day one-hundred-and-twenty-eight. I returned to my original book structure. Despite the various twists and turns the book had taken throughout the preceding months, my gut reaction from the beginning shined through. After Skype sessions with mentors and indecisive journal entries and conversations with myself about which direction the book should take, I realized, staring myself in the face while brushing my teeth, that there was a reason that I was drawn to Budapest. The Jewish individuals that I had the privilege to meet inspired me. I knew that they would also inspire others. I needed to share their stories as honestly and as transparently as possible. While my voice would still be integrated into the work, the emphasis would not be the foreigner, but the local - the community member, the mother, the brother, the sister, the co-worker, and the friend.

Day one-hundred-and-thirty-four. I asked an interviewee what it was like to grow up in Budapest. As he described his life in elementary and high school, he said, “Somehow, I felt different. I didn’t know why, but I felt it.” Previous interviews flooded my mind. Something in me clicked. Somehow, we all feel different. Somehow, this is innately linked to our search for why that is, for who we are, and for who we want to be. Somehow, I am different; different from who I was, different from who surrounds me, and different from who I might’ve expected or wanted myself to be. Somehow, that is beautiful, and somehow, I found a title to my book.

Day one-hundred-and-forty-one. I wondered about community. I pondered about what it takes for a person to be admitted to one. Beyond the particular methods and means of each community, I thought about the feeling of belonging. When does the individual feel at home? When does the group feel the individual to be a part of their home? Is there a length of time that marks this milestone, or a common experience, or a rule of thumb? The more I pressed for answers, the more I yearned to let go of asking.

Day one-hundred-and-sixty-two. I abruptly and inconveniently realized that often we fail to recognize ourselves as authoritative or reliable resources. We are quick to dismiss our instincts in order to embrace societal or more quantifiable paths. We only feel we know something if we have a formal degree in the subject or have received recognition from the New York Times. I did not believe that trusting too much was a problem. In fact, I believed a life without trust would be a mess. I determined that learning to trust is powerful, and tuning the ear and heart to trust ourselves would be much more valuable than to receive bottomless external affirmation. I found a newfound priority.

Day one hundred and seventy. I visited my grandmother’s hometown and discovered her birth registration, full name pre-immigration, and parents’ names and professions. I marveled at my Hungarian roots. I rode a train to Budapest seeped in existential bliss.

Day one-hundred-and-eighty. I conducted my final interview. I celebrated with a close friend and a local draft beer at my favorite neighborhood coffee house and pub.

Day one-hundred-and-eighty-four. Newfound Hungarian friends began to realize my time in Hungary was limited. My chest welled with bittersweet longing to stay and yearning to bring the book to completion.

Day one-hundred-and-eighty-six. I crowdsourced the first round of formal edits to my manuscript from twenty-four unpaid professional and non-professional editors. These individuals – dear mentors, friends, and family to me – helped shape the direction and impact of Somehow I Am Different.

Day one-hundred-and-ninety-five. I organized twenty-one edited narratives, Content’s Page, Author’s Note, Prologue, and Acknowledgments into a manuscript to be sent to a paid professional editor. I prepared a book proposal to apply to publishing houses.

Day two-hundred-and-seventeen. I left one home for another. I boarded the flight from Budapest to New York. Similar to the guttural feeling drawing me to Budapest in June, I knew somehow that this was not goodbye.

Her face filled the screen. In a long, white chef’s coat with her name embroidered on the front and a bright purple bow tied around her hair, she furrowed her eyebrows and looked away from the lens.

“I am relieved, but at the same time, I am so sad for him because he tried so hard and doesn’t deserve to be eliminated,” she said. 

We were born this way. Born with an innate and evolutionary need to survive and to win. Born, perhaps more importantly, with a sincere concern for the wellbeing of those around us. At a young age, we continue to feel concern for others even when that person is our competitor.

Somewhere along the way, we grow into a need for success and affirmation of that success that spiritually hinders us. Our empathy loses color in place of a competitiveness that deems “the other” the enemy, the one that warrants punishment, either because they are not like us, or because they threaten some form of what we perceive to be our safety. 

The relieved yet sad girl is competing to become Master Chef Junior. She has earned her placement on the show by being among the top 25 chefs in the country. She is now competing with her peers for the title of Master Chef Junior, or the single best young chef in the country. She will tell you all about her fierce yearning for the title and for the opportunities that come with it. However, while she pours ceaseless energy into her recipes and presentations, she offers an extra cup of flour to a neighboring chef if he needs it, she gives a hug to a peer if he needs support, and she cheers for her peer that wins immunity in a cooking challenge, even if that means she herself is still vulnerable to lose.

In any other reality show, adults do not behave this way. We are conditioned to believe that if others do well, we won’t. We are encouraged to group “others” into unfavorable mental schemas so that we can reaffirm our own self-worth and our own superiority.

Could there possibly be a force bigger than us orchestrating the sequence and significance of events in our lives?

With its body held in the palm of my left hand, I used my right pointer finger and thumb to crack its crisp, golden exterior. The anticipated thin, rectangular slip of paper fell on the surface of the table. In centered Times New Roman font my fortune read in blue, “All that we are is the result of what we have thought.”

For the past three months, as a Masters in social work student, I have been studying human behavior through a lens that emphasizes the impact of our childhood thoughts and environments on our adult thought processing and behavior. This fortune happens to not only touch on the subject matter of my midterms and pending finals, but resonates on a deeper level with the thoughts that ruminate in my mind in the minutes I spend staring at the ceiling before drifting to sleep.

One year and six months ago, I ventured to Budapest, Hungary to learn how activists on the ground motivate themselves to fight for the causes that they believe in.

One month into my stay, I learned that my grandmother was not Czechoslovakian, as I had for the previous twenty years believed, but that she was from a small village in the outskirts of Hungary.

At the age of sixteen, my grandmother emigrated from Hungary to the United States alone. Without money, resources, or social capital, she crafted a life for herself. Shortly thereafter, the majority of her family was murdered in Eastern Europe during the Holocaust.

What drove her to leave? and How did she know? are among the questions I will never have the answer to.

I planned a trip to visit my grandmother’s hometown, called Munkacs in Hungarian, which is now in suburban Ukraine and called Mukachevo due to border changes.

Four months into my stay in Hungary, my grandmother died. I promptly flew to New York to support family and grieve.

At my grandmother’s funeral, I reconnected with cousins who I had not seen or spoken to in ten years. They discovered my plans to visit Mukachevo and insisted I not go alone. Instead, they would organize the trip for me so long as I provided a convenient date and time for departure.

I boarded the train and was met on the other side by a Ukrainian translator and a Mukachevo tour guide, eager to show and explain to me the various cultural, historical, and societal landmarks of the city. Not only did I engage with the town mayor, each Jewish synagogue in the town, and various baristas and bartenders who did not understand a word I said in English, but I was able to walk along the dirt paths of my grandmother’s hometown, which I would never have had access to without the assistance and guidance of my cousins and their extended network.

Gazing out the window on my journey back to Budapest, warmth in my chest sparked a realization that the past few days went smoothly despite my all-encompassing uncertainty and ignorance of what would happen. I didn’t control a thing. Call it chance, or call it something bigger.

As I learned in my human behavior class, Pascal’s Wager suggests that when faced with the question of whether or not God exists, a rational person should live as though God exists and seek to believe in God because it maximizes chances for a positive outcome. What this means is that hypothetically, if one acts as though God exists and God does not exist, there are no consequences. If one acts as though God exists and God does indeed exist, one is rewarded in the afterlife. If one acts as though God does not exist and God does not exist, nothing happens. If one acts as though God does not exist and God does exist, one is punished. In this scenario, acting as though God exists has a uniquely potentially positive outcome.

I am not suggesting that God exists or that everyone should believe and act accordingly. 

I am calling attention to the small moments of curiosity that I have experienced and that I imagine you have experienced, too. The moments that leave us wondering whether coincidence is real and strong or whether some things really do happen for a reason. Sometimes we are not yet aware of the reason. Sometimes that provides us with comfort. Other times, that can be all the more disorienting. 

Today's blog post is written by the inspirational author Jessica Therrien about what she believes in.

Somebody once told me LOVE is the best part of any story.

Okay, I’m not going to lie. I read it at the beginning of a Stephenie Meyer novel. Don’t judge. It’s the truth.

What else is there in this world? In the end, we can’t take anything with us. Not our nice cars or diamond rings. But those of us who have faith, believe in love. We hope (and somehow know) that we will carry it with us when we’re gone.

My mother likes to tell the story of when I was born. Of how that night as I lay next to her she felt as if we were so deeply connected that we were the same person. She still swears that the first time she looked into my eyes she’d known me for all eternity. I like to think she was right. That somehow our souls have been together forever and will remain that way, infinitely.

There is something to be said about a mother’s love for her children. It’s something that you really can’t grasp the concept of until it happens to you. I tried my best to describe the feeling in the 3rd and final book in my series, REDEMPTION.

“I’d never seen anything so miraculous as a living, breathing piece of myself suddenly real and in front of me. She was my proof, evidence that there was more to this life than I could ever understand, a gift from something higher that knew what it was all for.”

I will admit that I have no clue how life works. I wish I had an answer to the question we all silently ask ourselves: what happens next? But all I really have is love. It’s the closest I’ve gotten to feeling sure that there is more. I hope that love is the answer. That God is love. That the people we’re tied to will be there with us after we pass.

I realize this is a tad bit heavy for a YA paranormal romance series blog tour, but hey, sometimes we need a little “heavy” in our day-to-day. A reminder to be grateful, kind, and most importantly to love.

If you’re a sucker for love, I hope you check out my series, CHILDREN OF THE GODS, and follow the romance between Elyse & William.

Thanks for having me on, Alyssa!!

Lead Council member, Christoph, is dead by Elyse’s hand, and Descendants have begun to emerge, exposing their secret to the world. Some see this as the prophecy come to fruition, but the prophecy caries a heavy consequence. It was never meant to be as peaceful as most had hoped. Humans and Descendants struggle to live together in a world that isn’t ready for such a change. America is divided. Those who glorify the supernatural race believe Descendants truly are the gods they claim relation to. Others see them as a threat. When Elyse gives birth to the next generation oracle, she sees one final vision—war. The destruction of the country’s major cities, and the end of America as we know it. After her daughter is born, Elyse finds herself without the ability she needs to predict the future. Desperate to save the world from such conflict, she puts her faith in the hope that Descendants are the key to survival. After all, they have the power to supply a broken society with the means to survive. Only from the ashes can a new world be born.

The Children of the Gods Series

 About The Author

JESSICA THERRIEN spent most of her life in the small town of Chilcoot, California, high up in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. In this town of nearly 100 residents, with no streetlights or grocery stores, there was little to do but find ways to be creative.

Her mother, the local English teacher, inspired her to do all things artistic, and ultimately instilled in her a love for language. Jessica currently lives in Southern California with her husband and their two children.

Nearly nine months ago, I scrolled through the wide and overwhelming Internet to find an editor for my book, Somehow I Am Different. My mouse hovered over Acorn Author Services & Publishing. “We are here to guide you,” said Acorn’s homepage. Caroline Mitchell, best-selling author of Paranormal Intruder, said, “Thank goodness for Holly and Shelly who built up my fragile confidence. My book went straight to No.1 in its category on Amazon!”

I cannot say that Acorn was the only editing service I submitted my manuscript to. That would have been foolish. I must admit, though, a warmth in my heart ignited at the thought of working with women who seemed to change so many lives of fellow writers.

In the mysterious way the universe works, Holly Kammier, one of two content editors at Acorn Author Services & Publishing, replied to my query. After a few back-and-forth emails, we struck a partnership and our work together began.

Holly helped me not only to see the light in my manuscript and mission, but also to see the light in myself and my work.

Beyond her professional capacity to turn manuscripts into best-sellers, Holly is an exceptional person with an exceptional story. Realistically, it is her story that empowers her to transform the stories of others.

Holly is a child from many homes. She was born in San Francisco in the mid-seventies. As many of us imagine San Francisco to be, Holly said, “My parents were hippies and I got to run around naked a whole lot and take yoga classes with my mom.”

She lived her first five years in SF before moving to Atlanta, Georgia. When Holly was ten, she moved again to San Diego. For the next decade, she lived with her family in three distinct neighborhoods in San Diego: Hillcrest, Mira Mesa, and Scripps Ranch.

Holly’s favorite memories are of nature walks with her father. She got lost for countless afternoons with her German Sheppard mix, Farmer, collecting river rocks and searching for the perfect walking stick. She made up stories in her head about being a princess or a member of an ancient Indian tribe.

When it was time for college, Holly moved to Los Angeles to attend UCLA. “I graduated Cum Laude from UCLA. That’s it,” she said. “I am one of the lease educated members of my family.”

Upon graduation, Holly lived in Washington, D.C., Oregon, Orange County, Basel, Switzerland, and finally back to San Diego where she became pregnant with her first child.

Throughout her professional career, Holly worked a variety of jobs within broadcast news—including photographer, assignment editor, writer, video editor, field producer, weather anchor, morning anchor, and reporter—in stations as varied as CNN in D.C. to the NBC affiliate in small-town Medford, Oregon. For many years, she also worked as a publicist for authors and performed celebrity PR in L.A.

“Every job I’ve held since college has involved writing in one way or another,” she said. “That said, what led to me writing books was a desperate need to understand myself.”

In the past, Holly avoided emotional pain by burying it far beneath the surface. “I didn’t even realize it existed,” she said. “I overcame it by doing things to make myself feel valuable, like exercising so I had a better figure, or getting good grades, or pursuing an exciting career that I believed improved society and gave me the appearance of having my shit together.”

When Holly was diagnosed with a twenty-year-old anxiety disorder that caused daily panic attacks and much turmoil in her life, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t self-diagnosed earlier. Then, she turned to writing.

“I wrote about my own life to remember forgotten experiences and understand,” she said. “It wasn’t until I read my first book, a memoir, that I began to connect with and understand my own issues. Even when I was writing Could Have Been Hollywood, I didn’t really get it. I needed to write it, distance myself from it, and then read it from an adult’s perspective rather than from the age at which I had experienced it. It was a very eye-opening experience and I fell in love with long distance writing. Press releases and thirty-second news stories don’t give you that same connection to your deeper self.”

Holly’s new book, Kingston Court, celebrated its official birthday on September 10, 2015. On the surface a fun, gossipy book based on Holly’s feisty friends and neighbors, subconsciously, Holly’s own personal dynamics influenced the book. “I was writing about my own fears at the time,” she said, “and encouraging myself to believe in my own value and strength. Sometimes as mothers and wives we put so much focus on our loved ones, we lose necessary pieces of ourselves. Kingston Court is about finding that 20-year-old girl still kicking around inside of us and making some of her dreams come true, too.”

Holly defines purpose as doing something you feel passionate about that will help others. “I have found that in motherhood,” she said. “I love my children more than I love myself and I truly believe that I am raising them to be a positive influence in our world. Beyond that, if my writing touches people, well, that would make me feel so incredibly accomplished.”

First and foremost, Holly hopes that Kingston Court entertains. “Life is hard for all of us sometimes,” she said. “A fun escape is a wonderful treat.” Moreover, Holly hopes that Kingston Court inspires other women to tap back into their buried dreams for themselves.

These days, Holly overcomes trauma by feeling the pain and fear and forcing herself to keep going in spite of it. She doesn’t know what is next. “I have set myself on an uncharted path,” she said, “and I am not sure where it will lead.”

Her dream is to write books and content edit for a living while working as a full-time mom. So far, I’d say she is doing is a pretty good job at that.