Disclaimer: this is just a personal update about some rather dramatic life events, told in a very unserious, slightly sarcastic way. Proceed at your own risk (popcorn recommended).

Yep, me. Against all odds. And against every survival instinct that said: “Do not, under any circumstances, post your own face on the internet.” …So here’s my face. Updated version. Handle with care (and photoshop).

First of all, sorry for vanishing for two months without a word. My inbox has been looking like a search party lately: “Where are you? Did you die? Are you writing? Are you abducted by aliens?” Short answer: none of the above. Long answer: grab popcorn.

So. Four years ago I divorced my husband. Applause, curtain call, happy ending? Ha-ha, no. A year of co-parenting later, I met a guy who turned out to be a scammer, emptied my pockets, and broke up with me on my birthday. Because apparently “Happy Birthday” now comes with “I love someone else.”

In a tragic lapse of judgment (a.k.a. my soft heart mixed with soft brain), I reconciled with the ex-husband. Two years of domestic cage life later, I realized nothing had changed. Same jealousy, same drama, same passive-aggressive speeches about how he does everything for the family while I literally paid for everything — including the roof, the car, and his ability to sulk in comfort. Spoiler: this did not end well.

Fast-forward: separation 2.0, but this time with full boss-level abuser mode unlocked. Screaming, threats, theft, changing locks, even surveillance cameras. Yes, I had my own reality show, except no Netflix deal and no laugh track. Only police reports.

Oh, but the drama didn’t stop there. After the breakup I did try seeing someone new — a guy who, for a short while, reminded me I was still attractive, desirable, and very much alive. Confidence boost? Check. Reality check? Double check. Because the “professional hockey player” I thought I was dating turned out to be a very mediocre footballer who’d been overselling himself like a bad car ad. Not the end of the world, but not exactly inspiring either.

And then my ex hacked into my private notes — basically my substitute for therapy sessions, where I dump my feelings, analyze events, and occasionally play detective (yes, that’s how I pieced together the Great Hockey-to-Football Scam). He screenshot everything, sprinkled insults on top, and tried blackmail. Spoiler #2: it’s illegal. Also, it didn’t work. But boy, did it add a whole new level of circus to my summer.

Meanwhile, real life kept happening: my kid started school in September, I lost my editor, and my writing mojo went into hiding under the couch. But — good news! — I’m slowly crawling back. I’ve got drafts nearly finished (yes, Caleb’s story is alive), new ideas brewing, and even a dangerous itch to write for my old fandoms (Harry Potter, Call of Duty — don’t judge me).

So here I am. Tired, slightly traumatized, definitely funnier than before — and, if you thought my angst-writing had range before, buckle up, because real life just handed me a whole new expansion pack. Thank you for waiting, thank you for poking me in DMs, and thank you for not forgetting I exist.