I didn’t expect this part to undo me.

I expected nerves. I expected vulnerability. I expected that familiar, low-grade panic that comes with handing someone a piece of yourself and saying, “Here. I hope this connects with you.”

What I didn’t expect was the kindness to come back so clearly. So specifically. So generously.

Over the last few days, some of my advance readers have been finishing The Luck We Carry, and their messages have been landing in my inbox and on my phone at odd hours. Mid-afternoon emails. Late-night texts. Notes sent from other cities, other countries, airport terminals, and couches where someone had clearly been sitting very still, feeling something.

One friend wrote that even though he never got to meet Ken, he felt like he truly came to know him through these pages. That line stopped me cold. That’s the quiet hope I never say out loud when I write about him. That somehow, through memory and detail and love, he keeps showing up.

Another reader said each essay felt like a short film. That the reflections at the end, the looking back with time and perspective, were a beautiful touch. That word—touch—felt exactly right. These essays were written across years. Revisiting them wasn’t about polishing. It was about honesty. About saying, This is who I was then. This is who I am now. Both are true.

There were tears. More than a few people told me they cried. One said the book should be sold with a box of Kleenex, which made me laugh and wince at the same time. Another texted from an airport, actively trying not to cry in public. That detail matters to me. Writing that makes someone forget where they are for a moment is not nothing.

What’s struck me most, though, is how often people have said the same thing in different ways. That the book is raw, yes, but also hopeful. That it holds both the beauty of loving Ken and the brutal difficulty of losing him. That reading it brought back memories for people who lived through that season with me, and stirred something tender for people who didn’t.

One reader told me they’d highlighted sentences they plan to share in a review. Another said they’ll be thinking about this book for a long time. That might be the highest compliment I know how to receive.

Here’s the part I didn’t anticipate: how grounding this feedback feels.

When you work on something quietly for years, especially something this personal, it’s easy to lose your footing. You start to wonder if the thing in your head will ever translate. If what felt true to write will feel true to read. These early responses have reminded me why I kept going back to the page. Why I stayed with the story even when it was hard.

This book exists because I kept writing through grief, through change, through the slow rebuild. Hearing that it’s landing the way I hoped doesn’t make it less vulnerable, but it does make it feel shared. And that matters more than I can say.

I’m carrying a lot of gratitude right now. And, apparently, a lot of tissues.

If you’ve been following along quietly, or you’re curious about where this book is headed, I share behind-the-scenes updates, excerpts, and honest reflections with my newsletter community first. You’re always welcome to join me there. And if this post resonates, feel free to comment or share it with someone who might need a reminder that love and loss can coexist on the same page.