Hi, I'm Angela.

I’ve always been a dreamer and an outright optimist. 

When I was four years old, I marched up to my mother, put my hand on my hip, and told her I was going to Harvard to become a lawyer.

It was a bold declaration from a little girl whose family was living on powdered milk, government cheese, and a dish we called slop, all while driving a push-to-start car. 

College, let alone Ivy League, wasn't exactly part of my world. How I had even heard of Harvard is a rather excellent question. 

Well, I never made it to Harvard. It turns out life had other plans for me.

Instead, I got married at eighteen and became a mother at nineteen, fulfilling a long family tradition of having children young and setting dreams aside in favor of survival.

I went about raising my kids, graduated from a state college, paid the bills, made more than my fair share of mistakes, and spent years trying my damnedest to be the kind of responsible adult I thought I was supposed to be.

From the outside, my life looked successful. 

But inside, I was a mess. 

By my early forties, I'd accumulated more than a career and a seemingly good life. I'd amassed grief, two failed marriages, debt, and plenty of regret. 

And there was a feeling I could not shake.

What if this isn't the whole story?

I started writing as a way to release some of the pent-up frustration that was becoming far too pervasive in my life.

It had been so many years since I had picked up a pen for pleasure that I wasn’t sure how it would work out. 

Then the words kept coming.

Ten thousand became twenty thousand. Twenty thousand became thirty. I had so much to say, so much to process. 

What I had intended to be a simple therapeutic exercise had become less of an escape and more of a way back to myself.

My first novel, The Cost of Carefree, grew out of that season of my life. It's a story about resilience, reinvention, and what can happen when you decide your life isn't finished simply because it hasn't turned out the way you imagined.

That's what I like to write about.

Second chances.

Taking chances.

Reinvention.

Improbable shots.

The messy, beautiful work of building a life that feels like your own.

For what it’s worth, I think some dreams require being a little unreasonable about them.

And if you’re standing at the edge of your own next chapter, wondering whether it’s too late or whether you’re being unrealistic or, heck, maybe even selfish, for wanting more, you’re in the right place. 

I’m glad you’re here.