I live in a yellow house with a front porch nestled within the Rocky Mountains. From here, the world arrives in seasons: the hush of snowfall, the crack of thunder rolling down the valley, the sudden flicker of a bird’s wing. Deer wander through as if they own the place. A lizard suns itself on the steps. Once, a snake curled beneath the porch as if it, too, had a story to tell. This is where I write, think, and watch the light change. It’s where I remember to be still.
My professional life has always been a kind of journey—one part curiosity, one part opportunity, and one part joyful accident. Today, I serve as a Senior Development Manager at Comagine Health, guiding the procurement process from the first spark of an opportunity to the final submission. The work sits at the intersection of strategy, marketing, and narrative, and it has drawn me closer to the long‑form writing that has always felt like home.
Before this chapter, there were many others: marketing director for a regional medical center, funding raising and endowment director for a state University, overseeing and managing a region for the American Diabetes Association, shaping content with SheWrites New York, running my own business, designing websites, managing projects, corralling volunteers, and learning—always learning—how people and ideas move.
I’ve been lucky. I’ve worked with mentors who were fierce and generous, editors who were sharp and intuitive, and colleagues who were gifted in ways that made me better. Their influence lingers in the margins of everything I write.
As a feature writer and columnist, I’ve published hundreds of pieces and collected a few awards along the way. I often say I know a “little” about “a lot,” a truth that probably began during an eleven‑week “working vacation” in Avezzano, Italy, where I found myself navigating cobblestone streets with a three‑year‑old, a six‑month‑old, an engineer husband, and a stroller that should have been retired long before it crossed the Atlantic. That adventure became my first column. It also became a reminder that stories often begin in the most chaotic places.
I remain drawn to the projects that simmer quietly, the ideas waiting for their moment, the narratives that haven’t yet found their author. My porch teaches me that everything unfolds in its own time. The mountains remind me to look up. And the work—whether strategic, creative, or somewhere in between—continues to be a place of discovery.
