I spend a lot of time thinking about the past—specifically the 1980s, when I was a teenager. Those years weren’t just good. They were the best years of my life.
High school in the ’80s.
Living in Newport Beach.
Going to the beach whenever I could.
Hanging out with friends, day after sun-soaked day, with no real concept of how fleeting it all was.
There was freedom then. Real freedom. The kind that comes before life piles on responsibilities, expectations, and obligations. The ocean was always there. Music felt louder. Time moved slower. Everything felt possible.
I wouldn’t trade being a teenager during that decade for anything in the world.
That doesn’t mean I don’t think about the future. I do—often and intentionally. My future thoughts are filled with vision and ambition: manifesting greatness, selling hundreds of books, finding a literary agent, and making a lot of money as an author. I imagine success clearly and unapologetically. I believe in what I’m building.
But if I’m being honest, my mind returns most often to that other place—the ’80s, Newport Beach, the feeling of youth before it knew it was temporary.
And I think that’s okay.
The past isn’t calling because I want to escape my present life. It calls because that’s where joy imprinted itself most deeply. Those years shaped who I am. They gave me a sense of freedom, creativity, and belonging that still fuels me today. The memories are vivid because they mattered.
Nostalgia isn’t weakness. It’s memory reminding us of what we’re capable of feeling.
I don’t want to go backward. I want to bring that feeling forward—the openness, the excitement, the belief that the world is wide and waiting. Writing has become my ocean now. Storytelling is how I chase that same sense of possibility.
The teenager I was didn’t disappear. She grew up. She learned. And now she’s creating something lasting.
The past will always feel like home—but the future is where I’m building my legacy.
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