During the three weeks I took off for my mental health, my psychiatrist told me she had no problem with me writing.
And so… I wrote.

It wasn’t work.
It wasn’t pressure.
It was oxygen.

I spent my mornings lost in my follow-up story to Elm Brook Manor, the words flowing through me like they’d been waiting for years. Maybe it was the medication. Maybe it was the quiet.
But every day, I felt myself returning to life, one sentence at a time.

I also made a list — my “Best Author Friends” — the writers on Facebook whose books and spirits resonated with me. I followed them. I read them. I reviewed their work with sincerity. And when their replies rolled in…
those small responses meant more to me than all the money in the world.

My sick-leave days slowly shaped themselves into a rhythm:

• reading
• writing
• reviewing
• posting
• connecting

And it worked.
Oh, how it worked.

My website soared.
Book sales flickered like fireflies.
Followers increased.
And for the first time in a year…
 smiled.

But life isn’t lived in a vacuum.
Eventually, the day came — the day I had to return to work.

And everything I had built up with so much heart, so much care, so much fragile joy…

flatlined.

Website traffic, dead still.
Subscriber growth, stopped entirely.
Book sales, quiet as a tomb.
The momentum — gone in a single day.

It hurt.
More than I expected.
Like watching something beautiful fester because you don’t have the luxury of tending it full-time.

The truth is simple:
I am not fortunate enough to be a full-time writer.
There is no safety net beneath me.
No one waiting quietly in the wings to catch me if I fall.
If I want to write, I must also work — and work takes time, energy, and pieces of my soul I wish I could give to my stories instead.

To the authors who have made it:
kudos to you.
I celebrate you.
I admire you.
I will read your books. 
And I hope one day to stand beside you.

But to my readers, friends, and fellow writers:
Please understand.
Please be patient with me.
I will answer your messages.
I will support you in every way I can…

…but sometimes I must first survive the hours that keep my world upright.

Writing saved me during my break.
It healed parts of me I didn’t know were broken.
And even though the metrics flatlined, even though the silence stings, I’m still here — still writing, still hoping, still dreaming.

Because one day…
I believe the lines will rise again.