All published first draft chapters of this book will be available until June 30, 2026. They will be removed when the final version hits bookstores on September 1, 2026.

I’m grateful for your support and can’t wait to hear what…

Read more

All published first draft chapters of this book will be available until June 30, 2026. They will be removed when the final version hits bookstores on September 1, 2026.

I’m grateful for your support and can’t wait to hear what…

Read more

All published first draft chapters of this book will be available until June 30, 2026. They will be removed when the final version hits bookstores on September 1, 2026.

I’m grateful for your support and can’t wait to hear what…

Read more

All published first draft chapters of this book will be available until June 30, 2026. They will be removed when the final version hits bookstores on September 1, 2026.

I’m grateful for your support and can’t wait to hear what…

Read more

All published first draft chapters of this book will be available until June 30, 2026. They will be removed when the final version hits bookstores on September 1, 2026.

I’m grateful for your support and can’t wait to hear what…

Read more

All published first draft chapters of this book will be available until June 30, 2026. They will be removed when the final version hits bookstores on September 1, 2026.

I’m grateful for your support and can’t wait to hear what…

Read more

All published first draft chapters of this book will be available until June 30, 2026. They will be removed when the final version hits bookstores on September 1, 2026.

I’m grateful for your support and can’t wait to hear what you think!

Chapter 3

Peregrine

I coasted down to perch on the kitchen windowsill at dawn, watching Nica help Yuli prepare breakfast through the salt-streaked glass. My talons gripped the painted wood so tight I was leaving scratches, but I couldn’t look away. She moved across the kitchen floor on her tiptoes like she was navigating a live minefield, shoulders hunched forward, arms tucked into her body, flinching when Yuli reached past her for the salt shaker on the counter.

Every protective gesture was a testament to the trauma I’d caused her. The way she angled her body to keep the wall at her back. The fact she kept the kitchen island between herself and Yuli, eyeing escape routes even in this safe haven. How she jumped, then froze when the sea breeze blew the cabinet door shut. I was the first domino in a long line of men that taught her she was worthless, and every bastard after me just confirmed the lesson I’d carved into her heart.

Read more

Thanks for being part of this journey! As a paid subscriber, you get exclusive early ac…

Read more

All chapters will be available until June 30, 2026. They will be removed when the final version hits bookstores on September 1, 2026.

I’m grateful for your support a…

Read more

My wonderful paid subscribers, you’re getting an exclusive first taste of something I’ve been absolutely bursting to share—my brand new series featuring Dort, Aura Cove’s crankiest crone! Consider yourselves my inner circle of secret-keepers as you meet this firecracker of a woman, her sweetie of a husband Ray, and those sc…

Read more

Chapter 1

The attic of Nevermore LaRue’s childhood home held thirty-two years of secrets, and all of them were moldering and covered in a thick layer of dust. Neve’s nose twitched as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves with a snap, then she sneezed, sending a cloud of particles dancing in the beam of afternoon sunlight that cut through the single dormer window.

After a quick inhale, two more sneezes burst out of her in quick succession. “Godzilla!” She consoled herself with the phrase her Aunt Talulah, the famous medium, preferred.

“What in the radioactive lizard monster do you mean?” asked the African grey parrot named Peregrine, who was perched on the arm of an old brass lamp. His scarlet tail feathers twitched as he observed her with intelligent eyes.

Neve shrugged off the question and then offered a quick explanation. “It’s better than ‘God bless you.’ A shower of snot should never be considered a blessing.”

Perry cackled with delight from his perch, then added, “You know, most people would hire a cleaning service before undertaking this kind of archaeological expedition.” He ruffled his feathers in disgust, sending a small cloud of dust motes swirling into the air.

“Most people don’t take unsolicited advice from the ghost of a dead con man trapped inside a parrot,” Neve replied without looking up, her gloved fingers trailing over another box labeled ‘Aureon Biomedical 1976,’ in her father’s distinctive block lettering.

Perry ruffled his feathers with indignation. “I prefer spiritually and intellectually enhanced avian companion, thank you very much.”

Neve ignored him and focused on lifting the lid slowly to avoid further dust bunnies. Inside lay yellowing papers inside manila folders, their edges curled with age. Her father had always been meticulous about his research, a trait she’d inherited, along with his tendency to overthink everything and his love of organization.

“IV logs and X-rays?” she murmured, scanning the pages that were filled with his research. “Medical notations and diagrams. Dad, what were you working on?”

Perry landed on her shoulder. The contact was unwanted, and Neve had to shoo him away with a sweep of her hand. “Boring science stuff? Yawn! Please tell me there’s at least one treasure map in there. I have a thirst for adventure.”

“One would think you would be more cautious about treasure hunting, considering what happened the last time you quenched your thirst,” Neve reminded him as she pulled out a stack of Polaroids. Perry’s human life ended the moment her former tenant fired several fatal gunshots into his chest, yet somehow, his soul survived, awakening in the body of her parrot.

The photos were standard lab documentation: experiments, rodent testing cohorts, microscopes, and researchers in white coats. But one made her hands tremble.

“Well, well,” Perry let out a low whistle. “Looks like someone’s been keeping secrets.”

The image showed her father, younger but unmistakable, standing next to a woman in a lab coat. Her pregnant belly was prominent, but it was her face that made Neve’s breath catch. The woman shared the same sharp blue eyes, same determined set to her jaw. On the bottom of the Polaroid, written in her father’s block penmanship, was a date: December 1976. Four months before Nevermore was born.

“No… that’s impossible.” Neve sat back on her heels, the photo shaking in her hands.

“Impossible is such a strong word,” Perry said, gentler now. “Especially for someone accustomed to time-traveling with a talking bird.”

“I don’t understand. I was adopted.” Neve’s protest came out weaker than intended. She surveyed the rest of the boxes, seeming to look for one in particular.

“What’s got your neurons firing on all cylinders now?” Perry called, flapping after her.

“There was another box here, years ago.” Neve pushed aside a dusty tarp. “I found it when I was twelve. Dad stopped me before I could open it. He said it was just old baby things he’d meant to donate.”

“How do you remember that after all these years?” Perry asked, though he already knew the answer. She never forgot details. It was both Neve’s superpower and her curse.

“Here.” She pulled out a box wrapped in twine, the knots still tight after decades. Inside, nestled in tissue paper yellowed with age, lay a collection of baby accessories: a faded petal pink hand-knitted blanket, tiny pink booties, and a silver rattle.

But it was the newspaper wrapped around them that caught her attention. She gingerly unfolded a copy of the Tampa Bay News dated May 1977. A small birth announcement clipping slipped out, the paper still crisp as if it had been preserved between the pages.

Welcomed with Joy, Nevermore Marie LaRue, born April 15, 1977.

No mother’s name.

“Well, that’s not suspicious at all,” Perry remarked, landing beside the announcement. “Who names their offspring Nevermore, anyway? I mean, besides your Edgar Allan Poe-obsessed father.”

“Perry.” Neve’s voice held a warning note.

“Right, right. It’s not the time for literary criticism.” He hopped closer, his head tilted. “You okay?”

Neve stared at the announcement, her mind already cataloging and cross-referencing dates, facts, and inconsistencies she’d noticed over the years but dismissed. There was the sensation of free-falling, and she felt the panic trickle in. “I’m so confused. Dad never lied to me.” The tension made her shoulders rise to just under her ears as the truth flooded in.

“Humans lie, my friend. Trust me, I would know.” Perry ducked his head down and preened a wing. “I made quite a career out of it.”

Despite herself, Neve felt the corners of her mouth quirk up. “You’re terrible at providing comfort.”

“I’m a parrot. I’m designed for snark, not sympathy.” He nudged the photo with his beak. “But I am excellent at solving mysteries, and my friend, we’ve just found ourselves a doozy.”

Neve stared at the pregnant woman in the photo again, studying her face, so much like her own, and felt something shift inside her. The past she thought she knew was unraveling, and she wondered what other revelations would surface.

“Ready to do some digging?” Perry asked, his eyes gleaming with the prospect of adventure.

“We need a plan first,” Neve insisted, already reaching for her notebook. “A detailed, organized…”

“Oh, Nevermore,” Perry sighed, cutting her off. “When will you learn? The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”

“Thank you, Steinbeck,” Neve deadpanned.

Perry wouldn’t leave it alone. “You can’t plan everything. You need to learn to go with the flow.”

“I’m not built that way, and I refuse to feel guilty about it,” Neve said. It was a new sensation, embracing her perceived weaknesses as strengths, one she’d discovered while sharing the consciousness of Rosa, the maid, and Isla, her childhood nanny, when a lightning strike during Mercury in Retrograde sent her and Perry back to 1989. The next retrograde event was approaching, and Neve was determined to be fully prepared in case the phenomenon reoccurred.

A few hours later, Neve was surrounded by countless cardboard boxes in the living room. Each box was labeled “Aureon Biomedical” in her father’s precise handwriting.

Witnessing the disarray, Perry remarked with wonder, “This is a hoard that would make Sheila proud.”

In the zone, Neve’s gaze was locked on another Polaroid where her father stood close to another woman in a lab coat, this one’s appearance eccentric. On the bottom, it read “Dr. Elaine Feldman, Aureon Biomedical 1976.” Dr. Feldman’s wild red hair sprouted from her head like a corkscrew of copper wires gone rogue, her hair seemingly contained by what appeared to be yellow number two pencils jabbed through a messy bun.

They were both wearing pristine white lab coats that contrasted with the industrial gray walls behind them. While Ellis smiled with ease at the camera, Dr. Feldman’s grin was more of an uncomfortable smirk; her chin was dipped down and eyes averted. The doctor’s mismatched socks peeked out beneath her starched slacks, one striped, one polka-dotted. Her fingers were splayed wide at her side, hinting at her discomfort with focused attention.

“Well, would you look at that fashion disaster,” Perry muttered, perching on the sofa behind Neve’s shoulder.

She didn’t reply, too absorbed in piecing together a timeline on the floor. Neve placed her father’s college graduation photo at one end, followed by his early research papers, then the lab photos with Dr. Feldman and the mysterious woman.

“This is a part of Dad’s life I never knew about.” Neve’s voice was steady yet amazed as she sorted through the sea of documents, photographs, and lab reports. Neve pulled out another handful of folders and dug deeper. Newspaper clippings about Aureon Biomedical caught her eye. “‘Leading pharmaceutical company faces allegations of research fraud for Protocol VitOx,’” she read aloud.

“Now that’s more like it!” Perry perked up. “Corruption, scandal, corporate espionage! Color me intrigued.”

Neve’s methodical nature took over as she arranged the clippings chronologically. When the boxes were empty and sorted into neat piles, she pulled out her phone and typed Aureon Biomedical in the search tab. Neve scrolled through the results, skimming a series of websites and archived articles.

Medical Ethics Quarterly - Winter 1978

The Aureon Scandal: When Research Crosses the Line

The fall of Aureon Biomedical stands as a cautionary tale in medical research ethics. The company’s collapse following Dr. Elaine Feldman’s conviction highlighted the dangers of unauthorized human trials and data falsification. Investigations revealed Dr. Feldman had manipulated results in three major clinical trials between 1974-1976, leading to the recall of two cancer treatment protocols.

Tampa Bay Sun Times - December 3, 1977

Biomedical Firm Shutters Doors Amid Scandal

Aureon Biomedical, once heralded as the East Coast’s most promising cancer research facility, closed its doors permanently yesterday. The announcement comes two months after the sentencing of Dr. Elaine Feldman and subsequent investigations that revealed widespread irregularities in the company’s clinical trial data.

TIME Magazine Archive - March 1978

Medicine: The Ethical Cost of Finding a Cure

…Dr. Feldman’s conviction sent shockwaves through the medical research community. The former rising star in oncology research received a twelve-year sentence for manslaughter and multiple counts of medical fraud. The case exposed dangerous gaps in research oversight and led to stricter FDA protocols for experimental treatments…

Florida Medical Board Records - Case Summary #74-1077

In Re: License Revocation - Elaine Feldman, MD

- License permanently revoked February 15, 1977

- Multiple violations of medical ethics and research protocols

- Unauthorized human trials

- Falsification of clinical data

- Contributing to patient death through unauthorized treatment

The Board finds that Dr. Feldman’s actions demonstrate a willful disregard of established medical protocols and patient safety guidelines. After careful review of evidence presented during the February 15, 1977, hearing, the Board determines that Dr. Feldman’s conduct falls far below the minimum standards of professional competence required for medical licensure in the state of Florida. The severity and scope of these violations leave no alternative but permanent revocation of medical privileges.

*Editor’s Note: Some details have been redacted in compliance with court orders and privacy regulations.*

Neve picked up the photo again, feeling an undeniable pull as she studied the doctor. The purple geode sitting on its shelf quivered in response. “See that?” Neve pointed the rock out to Perry. “It’s a confirmation. I need answers, and she’s the key.” The geode had been a gift from her father. He kept one half and gave the other to her. During her previous trip to 1989, she’d learned hers was a talisman of sorts, guiding her toward her destiny. A chance to right a wrong for a person the world misunderstood.

“I must say, your single-minded focus on this endeavor is rather admirable. But,” he paused for dramatic emphasis, “it is somewhat concerning that your feathered oracle hasn’t been fed in several hours.”

“There are some pistachios in the kitchen,” Neve muttered, not looking up from a research paper she was absorbed in, her lips moving as she read the words under her breath.

“The lady wounds me with her casual dismissal!” Perry crowed, then swiped at his chest with one wing. “Though I suppose solving the riddle of your origins takes precedence over my gastronomic needs.”

Neve continued arranging the timeline, her methodical nature tacking them to the bulletin board in chronological order. The truth was there, waiting to be uncovered. Her father’s research, Dr. Feldman’s downfall, and the presence of a woman who might be her mother in the same research lab were pieces to a puzzle she was determined to solve.

“We’ll find the answers,” she declared under her breath, more to herself than to Perry, and she was rewarded by another confirmation quiver from the geode.

If you LOVED the Midlife in Aura Cove Series, you will adore this spinoff featuring Nevermore LaRue and Peregrine, a former con-man trapped inside the consciousness of an African grey parrot. Buy it from me.

OR Find it here:

✅ Barnes & Noble

✅ AMAZON

✅ Apple Books

✅ Kobo & KOBO Plus

✅ Google Play

Read more

Chapter 1: Peregrine

Buckshot.

Before you read another word, heed this warning: nothing can prepare you for the searing, bone-deep misery that rips through your torso when it breaks your skin. The initial impact stuns you into an instant state of shock, sending you sprawling backward. As the hellfire pellets scatter throughout your body, inch by agonizing inch, they are like a thousand little stabs in symphony crescendoing together into an apex of agony. In disbelief, you will be compelled to reach down for physical confirmation. When you glance down at your life-force slick on the pads of your fingers, warm and wet, you will find it’s a sensation that is strangely not altogether off-putting. Then it unfurls, a dark crimson bloom seeping through your clothes. It’s mesmerizing, watching the scarlet tide devour the real estate of your cotton t-shirt.

My imminent demise was precipitated by the unfortunate underestimation of a little old lady. Technically speaking, “little” was a misnomer. For a morbidly obese seventy-year-old, Sheila was anything but little. She was also surprisingly agile as she navigated her cluttered home with the stealth and precision of a rotund feline on the prowl.

When she hit the bullseye on her first shot, I was reluctantly forced to concede Sheila possessed a commendable degree of marksmanship, but maybe that was giving her a tinge too much credit. After all, with a shotgun, one needs only to point in the right direction and hope for the best.

Mother always said, “Greed is the downfall of all mankind.” And if she were still alive, she’d tell me I had no one to blame but myself. In all honesty, I was just too awestruck by the sight of it. I’d been planning this caper for the better part of two fortnights. It was a gift from the gods that landed in my lap after a chance encounter with Sheila’s bitter and estranged son, Billy, at a dive bar I frequented. Over the years, I’d learned that slumming it with the locals often paid out handsome returns. You’d be surprised what the uneducated will say once their tongue has been loosened by alcohol.

According to Billy, (yes, you are correct in your assumption that a fifty-two-year-old man named Billy was as childish as the nickname implied) his mother was a doomsday prepper who didn’t trust banks and believed the international financial system was on the brink of total collapse. When this happened, the world would revert back to using gold as its dominant currency. In preparation, she’d been hoarding gold bars for decades while she waited for this devastating apocalyptic event to happen. Since it hadn’t yet, and likely never would, I was eager to relieve her of her burden.

Late one night, Billy bragged he’d be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars in precious metals when she died. It was a lazy pickup line he thought would green-light him into the panties of the bored blonde seated next to him. Unimpressed with his seemingly outlandish claims, she got up to leave, passing in a wake of cheap drugstore perfume. I waited patiently, letting the failure percolate from my perch three stools down, knowing with every passing second, he was becoming more ripe for the picking. When the time was right, I slid over and commiserated, “Women never see a good thing when it’s standing right in front of them.”

“Damn straight, they don’t,” he agreed, his face twisting up into an ugly scowl. Then he chugged down the warm dregs of his Coors Light, setting the empty can on the sticky bar.

“Let me buy you a drink,” I offered, barely able to stop the Cheshire grin from spreading across my face. I signaled to the barkeep, and he came running with the Jameson.

Four rounds of conciliatory shots later, a crucial ploy to ensure his recollection would be fuzzy of our time spent together, I seized my opportunity. He stood, swaying on his feet, and I absconded with his wallet when he turned to stumble off to the bathroom. It was a stained Velcro contraption that on the surface appeared worthless, with the exception of the plastic pocket that housed his driver’s identification.

A few days later, after tracking down his mother, Sheila, on the internet, I pulled my car to a stop a block away from her front door. The home was situated on the outskirts of the affluent beachside enclave of Aura Cove. In the dark, I engaged in rigorous surveillance. The home was a classic seventies ranch, tucked into the end of an unremarkable side street. I was relieved to see it didn’t feature an ocean view, greatly reducing the foot traffic. It was part of the original neighborhood of Aura Cove, built decades before greedy developers sliced up the coastline into multi-million dollar lots.

Sheila’s yard was sparsely lit and covered with overgrown bushes and palm trees in a state of serious neglect. I’d had to tread carefully at first since those who were paranoid enough to remove most of their financial assets from banks were often diligent about security. But one phone call to an acquaintance at a well-known security company verified that the blue logo on the sign stabbed into the ground near the front door was simply a decoy.

Over the next two weeks, I discovered that Sheila never left her house. She relied on home delivery with the kind of reckless abandon typical of lazy twenty-somethings who Uber for fast food. Every week, brown bags appeared on her front porch like clockwork, disappearing inside within minutes. You can learn a lot about a person by what they consume. Sheila, for instance, had a sweet tooth, an African Grey parrot, and didn’t believe in tipping. After I handed her driver a generous fifty-dollar tip, he was more than happy to let me rifle through her bags, especially after being stiffed on his previous delivery.

By week four, it became apparent, in the interest of progress, that I would have to break a rule I had never broken before: entering a mark’s house while she was still occupying it.

I took as many precautions as I could. On the eve of the full moon, I parked two streets away and used its natural illumination to navigate through connecting backyards to the rear of her house. I scaled the fence quickly and dropped onto the ground before scrambling toward the sunroom. At the back door, I pulled out my tools and, after only a few seconds of work, grinned with satisfaction when the interior mechanism disengaged. Then, I let myself in as quietly as possible, walking on tiptoes, and gently shut the door behind me. Once inside, I pressed my body into the shadows, straining to listen for movement, and waiting for my racing heart to recede. Then an unexpected rush of adrenaline filled me with brash overconfidence and encouraged me to take bolder risks.

Another downfall.

According to Billy, Sheila was fond of utilizing the ductwork to hide her treasure, and behind most of the vents in the house, gold bars and coins were tucked away. I started in the cluttered sunroom. Two sides of it were composed of glass where moonlight flooded in, tracing the lines of three dwarf lemon trees and other planters and buckets of vegetation. The air was musty with a slight citrus scent and buzzing with fruit flies. From the corner of the room, there was a rustling sound and a drowsy squawk that drew my attention to a large cage draped in a black sheet. During my month of surveillance, I learned there would be a large parrot sleeping inside.

“Who’s a pretty boy?” the bird mumbled and churred between soft clicks and warbles. I froze in silence, waiting for the bird to calm back down, counting my breaths in the darkness. Eventually, he did, and I located the first vent, resting on my knees in front of it. Outside the house, I heard the ancient air conditioner power on. It squealed and hissed to life, the fan blades screaming in protest. I was grateful the loud rumbling helped settle the bird and disguised the electric whirring of my portable screwdriver.

After a few seconds, I had the vent grate resting on the floor, the screws squeaking as they rolled back and forth on the metal plate. I bent down, reached in, and patted around, feeling the first rush of euphoria when my hand connected with something cold and metallic. I pulled out the first two bars that caught a sliver of moonlight, and a satisfying grin spread across my face. In astonishment, I held the solid gold in my hands for a long moment, fantasizing about the down payment I’d make on a sailboat, already spending the windfall in my head. My literal ship was coming in, and it energized me to reach back into the ventilation duct to pull out more when my fingers brushed against the rough edges of something strange.

Completely engrossed in my pilfering, I pulled it out and was transfixed. I stared down at what looked like an exquisite golden sculpture of a miniature parrot barely three inches long. In my hand, the cold metal warmed to the touch, and I raised it to study the bird when a sudden shimmer of golden light stole my attention. I felt it vibrate in my palm, and then a flutter, as the wings flapped.

FLAPPED.

I shit you not.

Totally mesmerized, I cupped it in both of my hands, willing it to flap once more when, with a bang and a flash, the thunder of buckshot pitched me forward.

By the time I whirled around, Sheila stood mere steps away. She cocked the shotgun again, and I tried to dive for cover, but it was too late. When the second blast hit, I knew I was in trouble. I squeezed the bird in my fist. The wings were sharp, the edges cutting through my hand, but it was a minor annoyance and paled in comparison to the mortal wounds I’d already suffered.

“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” I mumbled under my breath, letting out an unsettling chuckle at the absurdity. In my final moments, I was quickly entering delirium, so I cannot tell you if what occurred next actually happened or was a figment of my imagination.

The golden bird began to flutter in my palm, tickling the ridges of my hand until I released it into the air. It flicked its wings, sending a shower of sparkles drifting from the bird to the floor. Enamored with it, I struggled to my feet, stumbling forward as it flew toward the cage draped in fabric.

The shotgun cocked again, and I felt another shower of pellets explode as I fell forward onto the cage, disengaging the lock on the door in one fell swoop. There was a metal clang as the shotgun fell to the ground and then a heavy thud when Sheila landed next to it. She was clutching her chest and moaning, her skin pasty and white. I staggered to my feet again, both hands covered in blood that was now dripping from my mouth in sputters and starts.

“Are you seriously having a heart attack right now? Why couldn’t that have happened five minutes ago?” I let out a choked laugh as my blood dribbled onto the floor. The only kind of luck I’d ever had was bad, and in my last moments, as the circumstances became almost comical, my laughter became more unhinged.

“Uh-oh!” the gray bird squawked, taking in the scene of his caretaker on the ground as if he could understand what was happening. “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” he crowed, then repeated, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” The Life Alert commercial catchphrase resurfaced from my misty childhood memories, and I coughed out another coppery laugh. The bird had obviously been as overexposed to local access television as I had been.

The parrot splayed his wings, exited the now swinging cage door, cawed at the golden bird, and then came to a rest on top of his cage. His eyes were unblinking, and he grew more animated and squawked louder as the golden bird flew closer to him. His soft head bobbed up and down in glee as the golden bird fluttered its tiny wings closer. “Gimme a kiss!” he chirped now that the golden bird was mere inches away. Then he jutted out his chin and spread his wings wide in what could only be described as an elaborate mating dance, while his flirty demand repeated in a sassy staccato, “Gimme a kiss!”

The golden bird whirred and chirped as it drew closer, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the pair, now only a breath away.

In my final moments, I reached out to touch my shimmering avian guide. I was desperate to fly away from the pain when I felt lightheaded and saw a whoosh of black light. There were screams I only recognized as my own as I drifted away, and then my soul took flight.

If you’ve ever wanted to rewrite your past with a snarky parrot judging you the whole time—This book is your magical jam. 💜 Support Small Biz & Order from Me!

Or Find it at Your Favorite Bookstore Below

✅ Amazon (US and International)

✅ Apple Books

✅ Barnes & Noble

✅ Kobo and Kobo PLUS

✅ Google Play Books

Read more

Read more

For four straight months, I ate clean. And you know what my body did in response?…

Read more

First up was the rheumatologist. The chronic pain I’ve been dealing with for the past year and a half? It’s easing up significantly. I’ve regained a lot of range of motion, and the NSAIDs alone have been working well. So well, in fact, that my doctor suggested c…

Read more

Read more

Science says 26 is the magic number for microbiome diversity, but let’s be honest, most of us treat our gut like we canceled our own DEI program. We eat the same handful of foods on repeat and expect different results. Diversity matters (in ev…

Read more

My test results were divided into three categories: Alarm, Normal Range, and Optimal Range. Thankfully, I had zero markers in the Alarm category (yay for small wins!), three markers…

Read more

Energy levels have been a problem for me for years. Wheth…

Read more

I am terrified of the world my child faces.

Imagine leaving the safety and comfort of your home every day to enter a world where you are unsafe. Where holding a hand or giving a kiss in front of the wrong person could get you spit on, be…

Read more